


Agnes Nutter's Nice And Accurate Horoscope

by sandstone_kitty



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Astrology, Astronomy, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Bookseller Aziraphale (Good Omens), Children, Complicated Relationships, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Divorce, Found Family, Friendship, Good Parent Crowley (Good Omens), Height Differences, Horoscopes, Kimbaku-bi, M/M, Mild non-con touching, Modeling, Multi, Past Injury, Photoshoots, Secrets, Sexual Harassment, Shibari as photographic art, Slow Burn, Zodiac, celebrity gossip, cheesy tropes, children doing their best with ridiculous parents, everyone is a dumpster fire, fashion industry, finding peace with your ex, modern family issues, supermodel Crowley (Good Omens), supermodel lucifer (good omens), suspend your disbelief
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-22
Updated: 2020-09-20
Packaged: 2021-02-28 11:41:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 128,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22849585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sandstone_kitty/pseuds/sandstone_kitty
Summary: Supermodel Anthony Crowley loves his career but not the world Celestial Bodies Modeling Agency has built for him. His provocative image of 'the Demon' doesn't allow for his astrophysics background or soft days spent with his children. His horoscope obsessed ex-husband still micro-manages him, and his manager's just plain creepy.When he meets Aziraphale Fell, antiquarian bookseller, he wonders if he can build a relationship away from the spotlight. But Aziraphale has his own secret he's hiding. Only his two closest friends know him by his pseudonym, the reclusive but internationally published Astrologist, Agnes Nutter. Can a secret astronomer and shy astrologist find common ground beneath their public faces to change their lives for the better?My 2019 NaNoWriMo work AKA  “Everyone's a human dumpster fire, but at least they own it.”*
Relationships: Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley/Satan | Lucifer (Good Omens), Michael/Satan | Lucifer (Good Omens)
Comments: 670
Kudos: 425





	1. Meet Cute

**Author's Note:**

> This NaNoWriMo work from 2019's event is my first fic writing I'm posting publicly and has a completed first draft. Each chapter is put through beta and redone, so I have been posting each with completion. I had a schedule once, but COVID and it's precautions at work, moving house, remote learning, my beta's nursing job, and anxiety have combined to a megazord of going slow and careful. 
> 
> Please enjoy! I noticed this AU idea as a crack prompt and spun it into a novel-sized fic. I have updated this note on nov 11 2020 and have been in fandom for a while now, plus, I am learning a lot about writing I sort of ignored the first time around in school.

* 

_Libra- Your body needs special attention and your nerves are on edge too. A tendency to rush into romance scares off potential candidates for your love. Such a forceful approach can have an adverse effect on the person you desire. If you're not looking for rejection, try to develop a gentler and serene attitude, then those you meet find you to be a far more attractive proposition to date._

*

Agnes Nutter's Nice and Accurate Horoscope

There'd never be a popular cologne modeled after the grassy-vanilla scent of yellowing books. A friend once gave Aziraphale a 'literary scented candle' as a joke, and while he lit it occasionally in the flat above his bookshop, nothing compared to a freshly opened box of his latest auction purchase. Aziraphale needed to buy the entire lot in order to get hold of the two first-edition books he _really_ wanted. The rest he'd mark for sale in store. 

He had a full day planned. Unpack this delivery, sit down for a spot of typing up his real moneymaker before Anathema or Newt stopped by for the pages, and perhaps brew the new assam tea he'd picked up last week. None of those plans included assisting actual customers, leading to a grumbled, “Oh bother!” when the bell above his door chimed at someone's entrance. 

He dusted his trousers and knees as he pushed to his feet. And he was grateful he did so just in time, because the two men entering were both fairly tall and near hauntingly gorgeous. They each held the hand of a young child between them, approximately two or three years of age. The couple was bickering lightly with each other. 

As far as disturbances, it could've been worse. 

“Hello!” he greeted and met the child's eyes before looking up. “May I help you?”

The first man, blond and classically handsome, released the child's hand and turned sparkling brown eyes onto Aziraphale. “Yes, darling, I hope you might. I've been simply _everywhere_ and no one seems to have this book I'm searching for. A friend suggested your-,” he looked around and back at Aziraphale, now grinning with a flash of perfect, white teeth, “-quaint little shop might have it.” He smiled a bright, becoming smile which lit up his face even more attractively. Aziraphale took a moment to inhale sharp through his nose. His clientele tended not to include men who looked like they'd walked in right off a film set.

Or like the second gentleman, now holding both of the child's hands and swinging him lightly. “Do you have a children's section?” this equally striking man asked, much softer than the first's boisterous volume. He was also tall, with thick, bright ginger hair hanging in waves and partially caught up into a ponytail that trailed down his back. Sunglasses shielded his eyes, but in spite of his lengthy hair and tightly tailored suit, he struck more of an androgynous figure with his slender build and a definite red-wine tint applied to his lips. 

In fact, both customers were dressed impeccably, likely designers Aziraphale had never seen up close before. The child wore an adorably playful outfit, also expensive looking. The little boy grinned and chirped, “Books!” Aziraphale cursed his soft heart. 

“Right this way,” Aziraphale directed toward a small corner boasting several floor cushions. Aziraphale tended to not want people to grow comfortable and stay in his shop longer than necessary, but he'd made this concession for his younger visitors. Before he could offer a more appropriately sized seat, the ginger-haired man dropped down and somehow curled his lengthy body and generous legs into one of the beanbag chairs, leaving space for the child to clamber into his lap with a book pulled from a nearby shelf. 

The man flashed a brief, demure smile and cocked his sunglasses downward enough to shoot a look over them that punched into Aziraphale's chest as if it were a blow. “Thanks,” was all he said. He gave Aziraphale a quick once-over before turning his attention to the picture book. 

That was...unexpected. And clearly a misinterpretation on Aziraphale's part since the gentleman did not appear single, but he bustled back over to the blond man with a bit more of a skip to his walk. 

“And let's take a look at what you're searching for?” he said with his most patient expression. 

“ _Cosmetology and Style Issues for a Retrograde Mercury_ ,” the man replied, and he brandished a printout that included the ISBN. Aziraphale was reluctantly impressed in spite of the topic. He began wandering his shelves, murmuring numbers and other titles as he lost himself to the search. The blond man followed. When Aziraphale located his only copy of the rare book, the man made to grab for it. 

“Ah ah, one moment.” Aziraphale eased the brittle edition off the shelf, checked the contents, and held it carefully at the top and bottom of the spine. 

“Oh you have it? Fabulous!” He made to grab it again. Aziraphale pulled it back close to his chest. 

“I'm sorry. I'm afraid I can't part with this edition. Much too valuable. I can order a 2nd edition for you that's the same in content. It's a newer print and able to bear use.” 

The blond man crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes, still beautiful but now pinched with annoyance. “I can assure you, money is no object.”

“That very well may be, but I'm sorry, I'm quite firm on my offer.” Aziraphale slid the book delicately into it's shelf-slot. He gave the spine a gentle stroke upon settling the book back into place. 

“Don't you know who I am?” the blond man said, voice almost a whine. And now he was charmingly pouting rather than the irate frown Aziraphale had come to expect when he needed to step in and re-direct a sale.

The ginger poked his head up from the book he'd been reading aloud to the child. “Lucifer, relax. If he says he'll order it, let him order it.”

Aziraphale stoically ignored the little fluttering in his chest at the ginger's defense. 

Lucifer, as he apparently was called, closed his eyes and breathed in deeply and in a clearly well-rehearsed calming maneuver. Aziraphale witnessed this, feeling awkward, and stepped back when Lucifer reopened his eyes. He looked at Aziraphale with a pleasant expression as if he'd never lost his cool. 

“My ex-husband still knows me best,” he said with humor and a wink, an offer to bring Aziraphale in on the joke. As with most things concerning pop-culture and modern slang, it was clearly in reference to something that'd gone completely over Aziraphale's head. 

“I see,” he said after a beat. Also. Ex. That was- information. He'd do nothing with. 

“My horoscope today, what'd it say, love?” Lucifer called back to the ginger. 

The man sighed really quite audibly, Aziraphale noticed, then said, without looking up from the book, “ Trust people.” 

“Yes, that was it.” He gazed admiringly at the ginger-haired man and the child. “ 'Aries, push against your instincts and trust another today' ,” he recited and then looked at Aziraphale more impersonally but no less sincere. “I'm sorry for popping off on you like that, darling. One should never doubt dear Agnes Nutter.”

“Of course!” Aziraphale answered abruptly, overcome with a sudden desire to redirect. Immediately. He fidgeted with a piece of his jewelry, and then produced one of the more awkward customer-friendly expressions in his rarely used arsenal. “We'll put this order in now, shall we?”

“Yes, darling, let's do.” Lucifer turned again to the other man and called out, “I'm ordering my book rather than make a fuss, just as Agnes suggested, do you see that, love?” 

The man turned his head, nodded and returned to reading to the increasingly sleepy-looking child. 

The interaction between the two men was very curious and occupied Aziraphale's thoughts as he led Lucifer back toward the counter and till. 

“Please put an order in for Lucifer DeVil. Or Anthony Crowley, I suppose, but It's more likely to be me. It also might be a Michael Archangel if I convince her to stop in when I'm busy.” 

Aziraphale took down all the information, now bemused by this exceedingly flighty man. Before he could ask for contact information, Lucifer spun around, sang out “Ta ta!” over his shoulder, and swept out through the doors. Aziraphale shook his head over the theatrics. He pulled a ledger to more accurately record the order he'd need to make. 

“Do you have a pen?” 

He glanced up to see the other gentleman standing at the counter with the young boy scooped up in his arms and perched on his hip. The boy snuffled in his sleep against the man's shoulder. Aziraphale handed over the pen he was using. “ Are you Anthony Crowley or Michael Archangel?”

The man looked over at him with his lips parted in disbelief. “Crowley, please,” he said with a curious expression. “He- er- he takes some getting used to. Lucifer.” He pushed his sunglasses atop his head with the hand holding the pen. Aziraphale was transfixed by the unusual golden hue to the man- to _Crowley's_ irises. “Michael's my manager's P.A., but she, he, and Lucifer go way back.”

“Well he failed to leave contact information, so if he expects me to chase down this book, I hope he deigns to sweep right back in and pick it up when it arrives,” Aziraphale said with unintentional cattiness. 

Crowley snorted and smiled down at the slip of paper Aziraphale passed him, but he remained silent. He wrote down several numbers on the page and slid it back. 

“So. You've never noticed Lucifer before?” he asked. His wine-dark painted lips were curled into the barest smile. 

Aziraphale was struck again at the unreasonable attractiveness of the man before him. He shook himself out of his daze. How embarrassing. “Should I have? Or you?” he finally asked. “If you both frequent Soho, I've likely run into you somewhere. I don't pay attention to many people on most days. Sorry.”

“Mmm,” was Crowley's non-answer. He tapped the page and then shifted the sleeping boy to a more comfortable position. “That top one is Michael's. She'll get the message to him. The bottom one's my personal. I'll come pick it up if he flakes on you.” 

“Aha,” Aziraphale said. “It'll be a few weeks, I hope he knows. Even the second edition of this is quite rare. And I am fairly good at sussing out the location of archaic astrology books. In fact,” he glanced down at the title again. Very rare. He smiled, forgetting himself for a moment, then remembered he wasn't alone and looked back up at Crowley. “It'll be an entertaining bit of detective work. I so adore hunting down lost treasures like this one.”

Crowley's gaze was heavy when Aziraphale met his oddly colored eyes again. “I'm pleased to have given you a challenge,” he murmured low, possibly in respect for the sleepy toddler, but Crowley's tone coupled with his general demeanor nearly made Aziraphale shiver. 

The man was _unfairly_ attractive, Aziraphale thought. Now really. 

“Mr. DeVil's challenge,” he couldn't help but blurt out awkwardly in correction. 

Crowley glanced down at where Aziraphale was twisting the slip of paper with the phone numbers in his fingers, then looked right at him and arched one eyebrow. His lips shifted into a sly grin, and he tapped the top of his sunglasses so they dropped to the bridge of his nose. 

“Perhaps I'll come back and tempt you with one of my own,” he said, and then _he_ turned and swept dramatically out the door, much smoother than one should be able to attain while holding a sleeping three year old. 

Aziraphale was no stranger to melodrama nor insanely attractive people, but the entire encounter between the two was certainly a bit surreal. Anathema would likely have a field day with her crackpot theories when he told her of the story. He shook his head, brushing off the airy thoughts. Best not make a mountain of expectation from a molehill of hope, he thought. Then he turned back to organize his materials and move on with his day, hopefully with no other customer interactions.

*


	2. Typewritter Ribbon

* 

_Leo - "You hesitate to travel the untrodden path. Look deeply to discover why. Leo is a natural leader when you allow your fire to burn true to element. Step into the flames."_

*

The excitement of the morning melted into a more traditional day for Aziraphale, much to his pleasure. A few more customers had trickled in only to be gingerly guided right back out onto the street empty handed. The afternoon was growing long in shadows when he was able to finally sit down at his antiquated typewriter. 

He'd placed a shellac record of Schubert's quartet No 14 on the vintage gramophone, dropped the needle, and had poured himself a generous glass of wine in preparation. Whether he perhaps chose a red Bordeaux in recollection of Anthony Crowley's painted lips was not worth the fuss of consideration; he was only on the mid-side of thirty years old, not dead to the wiles of two attractive men wandering into his shop.

Though, really, it was almost bittersweet to see how two people could be so clearly affectionate with each other but no longer married. Perhaps if they'd consulted their astrological natal charts to determine their natural compatibility? 

Aziraphale secretly wasn't sure if he actually believed in the concepts of Astrology and the inevitable predictions cast from studying the positions of the heavens in relation to earthly events. One thing was certain: he was indisputably good. Spectacular enough to scheme along with Anathema and create his nom-de-plume, to author several international best-sellers, and to upkeep a syndicated column of daily horoscopes. 

He cracked his fingers, wiggled more comfortably into the chair, and hand-wound the ink ribbon spool to his antique manual typewriter. 

Finally. It was time to become Agnes. 

With the stirring sounds of the string quartet creating a comfortable ambiance, he consulted his handwritten, calculated horoscopes and began to type. 

Agnes Nutter's Nice and Accurate Horoscope, week of January 21st 2019

Aziraphale became lost in the nuances of daily aspects for some time. When the bell above his door jingled again, it was dark. He pulled the wire-rimmed glasses off and rubbed his eyes before replacing them. “Newt, is that you?” he called out. His voice sounded scratchy in his ears from several hours of disuse. 

“Just me, Aziraphale,” Newt called. “I'm here for the next pages,” he added as he made his way toward the rear of the shop. 

“Did you lock-”

“I locked the door, promise.” Newt made himself comfortable on the ratty sofa shoved kitty-corner to one of Aziraphale's personal bookshelves. His short, dark hair was damp from the mist outside. He wore a light surplus military coat decorated with patches from places he and Anathema had traveled in search of the mysterious and unsolved. When they'd married several years ago, Aziraphale couldn't have been more pleased for his childhood friend Anathema. 

Aziraphale finished up several lines and pulled the papers free from the typewriter. He slipped that page on top of several others from earlier and placed the bundle into a flat envelope to hand over. 

“I'm quite proud of this one. Should lead to some happiness for people if they trust in it.” He eased back in his desk chair, content. Then reached to begin cleaning up his workspace. “I particularly liked one for Scorpio, 'Someone in your circle of influence has strayed from their true calling. Be firm and guide them back to their best self ',” he said with just a blush of vanity coloring his words. 

“That's Anathema's, she's Scorpio," Newt reminded with humor. "And we're really the only ones in her 'circle of influence'.”

“I did consider that,” Aziraphale said wryly. 

Still thinking over typing it on your computer and emailing it to us?” Newt asked when he'd tucked the envelope into his messenger bag. 

Amidst manually winding the typewriter ribbon back to the opposite spool, Aziraphale froze and touched an affronted hand to his chest. “Good heavens, no! It could get lost! Just the thought of it.” He shook his head, firm on his feelings over this quirk of his. “No, far better to have a tactile copy.” 

Newt shook his head and ducked his face away to hide his smile. He had clearly grown used to Aziraphale over the last five years of being part of Anathema's life. “You could check it's delivered if you had a mobile.”

“No, my dear boy. This has worked for us so far, I don't see any reason to change it.” Aziraphale continued to coddle his typewriter as if it might be offended by this talk of betrayal. His anxiety began ramping up over this talk of change. 

“Anathema could text you the moment it arrived, no matter where you were. You wouldn't have to worry.” Newt was watching him with a kind smile. He rested his elbows on his knees and leaned forward encouragingly. Aziraphale felt he enjoyed retreading this discussion much too often. 

“Even if I were to 'e-mail' it, she might just as easily call me on my shop telephone. And leave an answering machine message.” He finished prepping his typewriter and placed the dust cover over it. 

“Aziraphale, even _I_ have a basic smartphone to text and make calls. And you know how awful I am with computers and tablets. “

Aziraphale began worrying his fingers together. “All this newfangled technology. Astrology is an ancient art. The heavens predate computers.” He shifted the desk chair to face Newt and settled back into it. “I'm sorry my boy, but Anathama's known me since childhood. She's well aware I'm a bit stubborn.”

“You realize aren't _actually_ Agnes Nutter, lonely recluse who keeps an aura of mystique and only communicates with the wider world through her books and horoscopes. It's alright if you want to while away a few hours playing candy crush.”

“Nevertheless, over-reliance on technology wields too many distractions and encourages less critical thinking, leading to stupidity,” Aziraphale said, more arrogant than intended but he was well into it now and too prideful to back down. “It's the downfall of so many people. No, I've typed out eight complete books as Agnes Nutter, daily and weekly horoscopes, and multiple articles for Anathema's publishing house. I'll adhere to what I know.”

“All right,” Newt soothed. Aziraphale realized he'd been leaning forward and swinging an arm around madly in his defense. 

“Sorry,” he said. He was behaving like the less critically thinking moron he'd just defined. 

Newt climbed to his feet and waved off the apology. “Still meeting Anathema for lunch tomorrow?”

“Of course! As if I'd miss our standing date after nearly twenty years!” 

He followed Newt's exit with his eyes and mused over his conflicted feelings. He wasn't a burdensome relic, was he? He was just comfortable. What was so wrong with finding something that worked and sticking with it?

And he'd neglected his wine. He gave it his full attention as he finally relaxed back into his desk chair and allowed his eyes to drift shut. His morning had been more interesting than he'd expected. 

_“Perhaps I'll tempt you with one of my own._ ” 

Good lord. A very interesting morning. While the DeVil fellow was stunning, Crowley was something else indeed. Nearly a whole head taller than Aziraphale. And all that languid sensuousness. And _that_ voice promising _those_ words. What would it be like to really hold the interest of a man so beautiful? So tempting. Aziraphale took a moment to loosely cradle himself in-hand through his trousers before pulling away from the stiffness that'd appeared with his fantasy. It was crass to indulge in any sort of lewdness. Clearly it'd been too long since his last liaison. 

Perhaps he might take a look at his own horoscope after all? He placed his empty wineglass down and reached for the bottle for a refill. He kept a journal of his work in longhand as he'd done since his teens. With the dexterity of one who'd enjoyed four generous glasses of wine, he fumbled around the cluttered desk until he found the most recent, typed only today. 

Sun in Leo. When someone asked, 'What's your sign?' the general public consulting their horoscope meant 'What's your sun sign?' Aziraphale produced his first natal chart for himself at sixteen. He'd known then he had an affinity for piecing together the zodiac. It was nothing like his skills and understanding today after decades of studying astrology. 

Moon in Scorpio and Scorpio ascendant. Mercury in Leo and Venus in Gemini- and then he blinked several times and absently reached for his glass again. He was putting too much thought into it. 

He imagined himself as just Aziraphale Fell, bookseller, member of the general public, who didn't know houses and elements and the astrological geometry of degrees and angles of astronomical objects in relation to Earth. 

He was a Leo. He licked his thumb and flipped a page of the heavy-weight paper, an atrocity really to do so, but sometimes good sense floated away on his fourth glass of wine. 

Bookseller Aziraphale would know he was a Leo because he'd checked his zodiac sign for his date of birth, July 25th. He was 34 years old and would be curious on what Agnes had in store for Leo for love. He slugged the remainder of his Bordeaux, inhaled deeply, and looked at part of the horoscope he'd cast for Leo earlier that week and typed today. 

_Leo for Singles! You're being tested! you seek proof as to whether the decisions you made regarding your love life are correct. This is a good time to re-evaluate your situation. Remain calm, be optimistic about the future and let events unfold, better times are on the way._

That was illuminating. He recalled sketching it out days ago. In application, Bookseller Aziraphale might be encouraged to take a chance on someone infinitely out of his league. A test. 

But what if he was well into a relationship with someone? 

_Leo for Love! Currently you could feel a little abandoned, because arrangements and friends seem to be more important to your partner than you are. That you might have one or two problems is more than understandable, but still, you shouldn't blame the problem entirely on your partner! You should better focus on finding a solution for both of you! Because the fact that love and routine don't always go hand in hand is not new. So don't ask yourself what you can do to counteract this indifference, but ask yourself what you are willing to do for this love!_

“Shouldn't blame the problem entirely on your partner,” he read aloud, now definitely feeling his drink. Ah. That was certainly a bit of his moon in Scorpio rearing it's head. His last relationship had stuttered to a halt some time ago because he tended to think he knew better. 

Aziraphale closed his journal slowly so the pages fluttered. A wisp of air brushed his fingers. 

Maybe he'd take note of it all. Maybe he wouldn't, though he should. Particularly if he was growing flustered at a stranger's impossibly elegant fingers and a pair of alluring, golden eyes watching him from above a teasing curl of lips. He gazed over at an entire shelf of handwritten horoscopes and other astrological studies. 

Perhaps he'd listen to himself for once. Average bookseller Aziraphale was a construct that didn't exist. But the real Aziraphale and Agnes Nutter were one, and Agnes was always right.

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> header horoscope from a local newspaper on date given, a hint for Aziraphale. 
> 
> Leo's horoscope from within the chapter from astrology . com and from the past. 
> 
> Because of how I built this story, I had to create natal charts for each character, which meant I needed fictional dates, times, and places of birth. I'll include these in future notes because it was so entertaining! I ran them for multiple characters. My aunt is very serious about astrology and answered many of my questions. If anyone reading this has a question, I could give it a go.


	3. Absent Ducklings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It takes me nearly two hours to reformat each section from open office to A03 and figure out the HTML! I hope I get better with experience.

* 

_Aries -"The moon's movement in your solar 2nd house finds you seeking more predictability in your life. Clinging to your past for comfort though will only bring you stagnation. Be open to letting go and searching for new connections or enriching connections already simmering."_

* 

Adam's bedroom in Crowley's penthouse was painted in darker violet hues, with a soft, comfortable big-boy bed placed right beneath an old poster of the solar system now that he'd recently transitioned from his crib. A nightlight star projector displayed constellations on the ceiling which Crowley found to be wildly inaccurate. The thing supposedly played music as well, but he wasn't about to test that out. Though perhaps he would tonight, because Adam would not fall asleep for him. 

“Want book, daddy!” Adam said tearfully, and Crowley shifted from where he sat upon the quilt Adam was tucked beneath. Adam had recently turned three years old. Crowley expected it to be easier than two. When he'd first met and eventually married Lucifer, he'd gained a five year old stepson, Warlock, who was a well-behaved but curious child. Crowley had assumed all younger children were similar. Oops. 

“What book, my little Stardust?” he asked for the fourth time. He placed his hand on Adam's chest to soothe his gasped sobs and tucked his stuffed puppy closer. 

“Duck! Duck book!” Adam said and turned his big blue eyes, glassy with unshed tears, right onto Crowley and directly into his pathetic heart. 

“Shhhhh. Hush up. I'll text your father.” Crowley reached for his mobile off the side table holding the star projector. His fingers quickly tapped out a message to his ex. 

_C- whats this book adam wants- duck book? By you?_

He waited and continued to stroke Adam's arm until the mournful sniffling quieted down and Adam's movements slowed. Finally.

His mobile chimed. Crowley scrambled to quiet it before it rewoke Adam. 

_L- Nothing here. At the disagreeable round man's shop?_

Crowley thought back to several days ago when they'd swung by the shop in Soho for Lucifer's rare book while running errands together. He recalled some sort of old picture book featuring drawings of ducks in straw hats. 

_C- gotchya_

The shop. The shop. He couldn't quite remember where he'd been, but he certainly remembered the shopkeeper. Slipping from Adam's bed, he picked at the memory. He'd thought about the curiously attractive man from the bookshop all that day. His opinion clearly differed from Lucifer's. 

He moved silently from Adam's room, passing Warlock's closed bedroom door; Warlock would be at his mother's for another week, an arrangement Crowley reluctantly agreed to continue when Lucifer's ex-wife had voluntarily surrendered her parental rights and allowed Crowley to adopt Warlock. 

He flopped onto a sofa in an adjacent room. After an indulgent stretch, he dragged a tablet off the coffee table and set it on his stomach, hooking one leg over the sofa back and the other bent at the knee so he could prop his foot on the other armrest. Today had been long, boring and exhausting, full of meetings. Plus, Adam was inconsolable whenever his step-brother visited his mother, but it happened so rarely for Warlock. Crowley would just try to power Adam through it. 

He idly googled for bookshops in London, narrowing down by neighborhood. Nope. Nothing. Nope. He spied a review for A. Z. Fell's Antiquarian Books and focused in on that one. All sorts of complaints on how you somehow couldn't seem to purchase a book at the shop and not knowing how they'd ended up walking out empty handed. 

Crowley could not resist an amused smirk. That was definitely it. He wondered if that'd been the owner, A. Z. Fell, with his completely archaic suit, unkempt and fluffy ash-blond hair, and wire rimmed glasses framing plump cheeks and a snub nose. He'd been over a head shorter than Crowley. And while he carried his weight in a way that would be mocked by most people in his world of modeling, it was in no way unusual for the general population. 

And thinking of that; Crowley googled himself and pulled up a recent image search. Always, there were paparazzi photos praising or critiquing (who dressed to the nines to pick up a carton of milk?), but also the search brought up adverts he featured in, runway shows, celebrity images just about him. He'd had a calendar three years running, and hadn't Warlock laughed for days after adding mustaches and tattoos to the risque photographs? Warlock'd done the same to Lucifer's and his Mother's. 

How had this bookseller gone 'round existing in London so long without recognizing Anthony 'The Demon' Crowley or even more so, Lucifer 'The Morningstar' DeVil? Because being unable to recognize two celebrities had wandered into his dusty little shop was genuine, he'd bet his classic car on it. Usually people behaved in extreme ways when realizing who they had before them. This bookseller had smacked down Lucifer's- being Lucifer- without a blink of an eye. It was satisfying to see his ex's priggishness brought down a notch. 

He hooked a blanket from a nearby chair with his toe, an effort he found himself idiotically proud of, and dragged it back to his sofa to snuggle more comfortably. 

Enough of that. He lingered over a photo of himself in slick suitwear from a rare return to the catwalk for Uriel Asante's controversial androgynous Fall/Winter 2018 collection. A favor for a Celestial Bodies model turned designer when C.B. bought out her contract in a surprising move. He looked _fabulous_. He indulged in a prideful smirk while admiring his own lines and form.

It faded when he considered the two years he had left on his own contract with Celestial Bodies Agency and Gabriel Celestial himself. Crowley was shackled to his rakish and sexy but not too bright Demon With a Heart of Gold, and the Demon had an image to uphold. 

Discontented now, he shut those tabs down and pulled up _Stargazer's Pub_ , his favorite astronomy hangout. None of the pretension of the British Astronomical Association, just a bunch of users hanging out, alternately supporting and trashing each other's theories. Tension unspooled from his shoulders as he swiped through threads. He'd quit Uni not long into his astrophysics degree when his career took-off, but he'd always known his shit. 

Nice, but wrong. This guy was an idiot. Crowley readjusted his sprawl over the sofa so a pillow served as a better surface for his tablet. “Why bother fucking around with IRAF scripts to blank a galaxy from a V-band image for no godamn reason?” he said aloud. “At least do something with it,” he grumbled cheerfully as he composed a scathing response to the thread under his pseud, finally beginning to relax. 

Ophiuchus, the respected amateur astronomer didn't have to worry about _his_ image. 

*

The following day, Crowley nodded at the housekeeper on his way out the door and drove Adam to his Montessori himself. Michael was waiting near the entrance with Warlock. “Something's fucked up,” Crowley fretted aloud. He swore beneath his breath again as he unbucked Adam from his car seat. His congenial mood from the morning dissolved. 

Warlock appeared subdued at Michael's side until Adam ran into his arms, calling, “Woawlahhh!” so loud others looked over. He picked up Adam and gave him a bear hug, complete with growl. 

“I thought he wouldn't be back until next Tuesday?” Crowley asked Michael in a poorly disguised whisper as he threaded Adam's arms into his school pack. Warlock released Adam and gave a one-armed hug to Crowley. 

“Mum said she had to 'jet to Ibiza' with some guy,” Warlock said in a mocking tone, his head turned down to the pavement below. “Whatever. I'd rather be with you, Pop.” He nudged his forehead into Crowley's side, one allowance to himself of weakness, and he backed away. Crowley winced and kept his disappointment in Lilith to himself. This is what he got for being too damn nice. 

Michael's entire presence normally screamed precision and efficiency with her light make-up, coiffed, short hair and tailored suit. Crowley knew she'd been close to his ex and his manager from their school days. She officially worked for Celestial Bodies as Gabriel's personal assistant. Unofficially, she seemed to do everything else for Lucifer. She had the entire time Crowley'd known her. Even _she_ seemed flustered.

“Nothing like Lucifer ringing me up at three in the morning because the airline had a ten year old boy on board they'd been _assured_ by Lilith's _people_ would be meeting his father at the airport,” she said with little inflection in her voice. 

Crowley paced three tight circles, waved an arm into the air and snarled something aloud that ended up a string of vowels. Who cared how many acting awards Lucifer's ex had on her mantle when she pulled shit like this? Then he stopped himself from anything else. He'd need words with Lucifer, and not in front of Warlock. 

Adam had taken a few steps to his Montessori door in eagerness. “Time to go in?” he asked, grinning and clearly pleased Warlock was home earlier than planned. 

“Yeah, stardust. Hang on.” Crowley stepped over, squatted as low as he was able in his fitted clothing, and pecked Adam on the forehead. “Nanny'll be by for you after school. Behave.” He shook his loose hair from his face as he stood up to full height again. He turned to Michael and asked her, “Walk him in?” and swung his head in a way he hoped she read as so-I-may-speak-to-my-son-alone. Michael barely lifted an icy brow and took Adam's hand to lead him away. 

Crowley looked at Warlock, who'd pulled his mobile out and was probably texting friends. “You all right, kid?” he asked, casually enough for it to be open ended. He stuffed just the tips of his fingers in his exceptionally tight leather trousers, something trendy he'd worn in anticipation of revisiting the bookseller because they made him look effortlessly good. 

His mind was preoccupied now though on his poor son, who'd been shoved away like an unfashionable accessory. 

Warlock nodded, silent. 

“'Kay then.” Crowley wouldn't push. He also pulled his mobile out and brought up a map of the bookshop he would head to before an 11:00H stylist meeting for an upcoming shoot. 

Michael emerged from the Montessori and nodded her head at Crowley. He shrugged. They'd known each other long enough that this comprised a complete conversation. 

“Warlock?” Michael said as she began walking toward one of Lucifer's cars, the Rolls today. 

Warlock peeked up from behind his dark chin-length fringe and mumbled, “Coming.” Then he turned and to Crowley's surprise, gave him a tight hug around the middle. “'M glad you didn't leave when you and Father split up.”

Jesus. What's with all the emotions today, Crowley thought, desperately trying not to have any sort of tearful, mushy reaction. He hugged Warlock back with one arm. “You're still my kid,” he reassured. “You'll always be my kid.” 

He felt Warlock wipe his nose on his Givenchy button-up shirt and watched him turn and jog over to where Michael was waiting. Summoning up any disgust at shirt-snot was half-hearted at best. A shirt was a shirt. His boys were everything.

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Horoscope hint for Aries (Lucifer) partly from astrology today . com and part fabrication.


	4. Twine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Meant to have this up Sunday, but instead, I needed to cough up money to fix the transmission on a car that's only three years old but just out of warranty *angry keysmash*
> 
> Thanks to some very kind advice, this has been the easiest chapter to post! Fandom is happiness.

*

_Libra rules the hips, kidneys, and skin. Your need for balance in life may come so obsessive you can lose balance within. The imbalance could create a problem in one of these areas. Walk loosely, hydrate, and try not to tackle everyone's problems on your own in your search for external balance._

*

Crowley's somber mood dogged him as he parked his Bentley and walked toward the bookshop door. He'd need to talk to Lucifer about Lilith, and wouldn't that be fun? But Crowley's wishes trumped Lilith's. Just one look at Warlock's resigned face solidified Crowley's resolve on any unofficial visitation. 

He tried to focus on happier thoughts. He'd need to find some way to cheer Warlock, but imagining Adam's delight if Crowley returned this evening with the coveted 'duck book' improved his outlook for the day. 

Satisfied now, Crowley studied the architecture and details of the building as he approached. It seemed to be an original structure for this street, untouched by the trendy redevelopment going on nearby. 

This was definitely the same place he and Lucifer had been a few days prior. The door was locked. The lights were down. He squinted at the sign and tipped his sunglasses upward to investigate. 

“What the hell?” he said softly. These were the most asinine shop hours he'd ever seen, and he'd been in some obscure places over the course of his modeling career. If the sign was to be believed, today the shop would be open within the next hour. Crowley decided to chance a bakery with coffee shop within walking distance he'd passed. 

His outfit selection today was purposeful, hair simple and hanging loose, with no particular disguise or misdirection he sometimes used to avoid obvious attention in public spaces. He felt compelled to test if the shopkeeper's lack of recognition was a fluke. But he'd also gone tame, nothing extravagant intended to draw eyes. The mirrored sunglasses were his one concession; his light-amber eyes were rare enough to be a distinctive feature, more-so than Lucifer's chocolate brown. 

No one noticed him out on the pavement as he made his way to the bakery and coffee shop. However, as soon as he approached the counter, the employee made a double take. 

Her jaw dropped. She spluttered out a greeting. 

Crowley self-consciously adjusted the collar of his jacket and cocked his hip to bluster over his nervous tick. “Hey,” he said with a bland, impersonal smile. He could hear whispering in the sparsely populated bakery and knew there'd likely already been photographs. Perhaps his everyday was _still_ too obvious. 

“I'll take your house blend with a little skim,” he ordered. Gabriel would know somehow if he ate anything with even the smallest amount of carbs beyond his suggested smoothie from this morning. 

The young woman squeaked out a “right up!” and spun to prepare the coffee, her ears visibly red. Here was the downside of his fame. Some people acted either anxious or overly familiar. Some felt they had groping rights since he was bare so often in print. It didn't help that tabloids never shut up about his sexual adventures. He suspected his manager/publicist of stoking the whole 'slutty demon' gossip in support his image.

The employee returned with his order, blurting, “It's on me! On the house, I mean. He said.” She pointed at someone, a manager perhaps, peeking through the backroom door. 

“That's not necessary,” he said, flustered in turn, his own face warming some. He didn't deserve free stuff for just existing. 

“Please,” she said, wide eyed now. And clearly had talked herself into bravery, because she slid over a napkin and asked, while batting her eyes, “sign this?”

Crowley did so, shoved a huge tip in the jar, and forced himself to slowly saunter away from the counter rather than flee as he sensed the attention of more customers. Before he hit the doorway though, he caught sight of the bookshop fellow and veered toward him. 

He was just as Crowley recalled. This time, he wore a pale-blue shirt beneath the ugliest argyle sweater-vest Crowley'd ever seen, paired with a bow-tie that was clearly unnecessarily gaudy. Gold-rimmed wire frames as before, but Crowley couldn't recall the color of his eyes. His hair was still a mass of loose curls fluffing outward in whichever direction they seemed to care. He was reading a gilded-page book while absently nibbling on some sort of baked thing. 

Crowley felt something bright flare in his chest and pulled out the chair opposite of the man to drape himself in it attractively. “You keep weird shop hours,” he opened with and sipped his coffee, eagerly awaiting what would happen. 

The man startled and glanced up. “Oh!” he said softly and lowered his book. He adjusted his glasses and flashed a benign but confused smile. “Do I know you?”

This was twice now. He was certain the shopkeeper didn't recognize his fame, but Crowley thought he should at least recall him from before.

“The other day? With a toddler and a tall blond who's a bit much?”

The man abruptly blushed in a very interesting and promising way. “Ah! Er. Yes, of course! You might let your partner know I've got a lead on his book,” he added and glanced down toward a plated apple fritter demurely before looking back beneath lashes magnified by his glasses lenses. 

“Not my partner,” Crowley said, now biting back a smile over his coffee cup. “My ex can deal with his own shit.” 

He heard even more soft talking around him and knew he'd have to slip out soon so as not to cause a commotion. He took another sip of his coffee while considering what to say and noticed someone's phone number was written on the side of the cup. He had the strangest urge to hide it from the shopkeeper. 

“Are you A. Z. Fell?” Crowley asked, grasping for something to say. He felt unusually awkward, and then it fled his mind when the man nibbled a corner off his fritter and moaned a little breathy thing that likely wasn't meant to be heard. The man's tongue delicately slipped out to catch any wayward crumbs from his plump lips. 

Holy shit.

_This_ was worth nurturing. Crowley placed his coffee on the table and rested his chin atop his folded hands as he propped his elbows on the table. “Arnold? Arthur? Amos?” He smiled, intentionally flirtatious now. He forgot about the increasingly noisy shop around them. 

The man gave him a look that bordered on exasperation. “Aziraphale,” he said, then blotted his lips in with a dainty pat of his napkin. “Aziraphale Fell, antiquarian bookseller.”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley drawled out slowly with over-exaggerated enunciation involving a sensual placement of tongue, lips, and teeth in hopes it would lure Aziraphale's gaze to his mouth. From the way the man's cheeks promptly turned red and how he glanced down and away again, Crowley felt he was successful.

“I. Yes.” Aziraphale began nervously clearing his spot, looking as though he was ready to run. That wouldn't do. 

“My son,” Crowley volunteered, easing back on the heavy flirting. “He's asking for a duck book we read the other day?”

Aziraphale's entire expression slipped into dreaminess. “Oh, yes, _Farmer For a Day_. I recall shelving it. It went out of print years ago. It's quite pricey and rare!” he said brightly. He finished collecting his own book and a bagged baked good, then stood from the table. “I simply cannot part with it, my dear, so sorry.” 

Crowley joined him and began following when Aziraphale pushed his chair in. “I'm sure I can afford it,” he suggested, testing Aziraphale with how he'd handled Lucifer in mind. He was beginning to find the entire situation humorous. 

“I don't doubt it,” Aziraphale replied. He pushed the door open with his hip. Crowley caught it and held it open. “Your clothes and watch are quite fashionable,” he said airily. “But it's just that the book is irreplaceable.” 

He walked along side Aziraphale, now fascinated. “Come on,” he wheedled. When Aziraphale glanced at him while unlocking his shop door, Crowley shot him his most winning smile. “It'll be in a child's hands like it's meant to be.” He held the shop door open for Aziraphale as well and trailed him in. “I bet I'll be reading it so often I'll even have it memorized. It's legacy will live on.”

Aziraphale hung an incredibly aged but seemingly well maintained coat on an old fashioned coat and hat rack near his shop entrance. When he turned back toward Crowley, he visibly softened. “Perhaps.” He began walking toward a cluttered desk near the rear of the shop. 

Crowley saw his opening. His long strides took him to the desk before Aziraphale could reach it. He slid his sunglasses off, knowing his eyeliner would set off his eyes to his advantage. In his black Givenchy shirt, fitted Saint Laurent leather jacket and same designer black leather slim-fit trousers, he was very much aware of the image he projected, especially with his hair unbound and falling in soft waves. When Aziraphale glanced upward at him and nearly tripped over his own incredibly scuffed trainers, Crowley drew his index finger across his chest slowly in an 'X' motion. “Cross my heart I'd take care of it,” he murmured.

Aziraphale's lips were parted and his eyes went wide and dilated. He placed the bag of bakery items and his book on the desk without breaking his gaze. Then he shook his head, blinked slow, and glanced back at Crowley with a puzzled expression. 

Crowley suddenly and very desperately did not want to get his way just because he'd ramped up his innate sex appeal onto someone clearly inexperienced with a supermodel's focused intent. He gentled his flirtatious grin but couldn't do much about his natural provocativeness others seemed to find alluringly attractive. “Any chance I could sway your decision?” he said, as soft as before but with less intent behind it. 

“It's only the one edition, from the forties.” Aziraphale said, lowering his voice in what Crowley guessed was an unconscious mirroring. He led Crowley over to the perpendicular shelving near the beanbag chairs Crowley and Adam had occupied before. 

Aziraphale slid his fingers along the shelf at the base of the book spines, whispering things under his breath. His shoulders gradually dropped from how tense they'd apparently become. He seemed lost in his own space, his lips curling into a slip of contentedness and his movements measured and almost sensual. Crowley realized he was staring at the man's hands and stepped back. 

Crowley belatedly realized he'd made this bookseller nervous, hadn't he? He'd dropped onto what was likely breakfast unannounced, had gone after something he wanted from the man straight through his cock the moment he sensed Aziraphale's interest, and had thrown the poor guy completely off-kilter. And Crowley had no idea why he urgently wanted to peacock for Aziraphale when he'd made dozens of transactions without throwing his -well- everything around.

Aziraphale located the book and drew it carefully out of it's spot. “ _Farmer For a Day_ ,” he said, then glanced upward to meet Crowley's eyes with a quietly proud expression. 

Crowley nodded and leaned back against the wood framing on the opposite bookshelf. He recalled the artwork on the cover, a mallard with straw hat gripping a spade. “That's it. My son really wanted it last night. Tears and everything,” he added, thinking back upon Adam's three-year old despair with fondness now that it'd been a good fourteen hours ago.

“I suppose.” He was watching Crowley closely, with his head tilted and his wire-frames sliding down his nose. Crowley's smile returned slow and syrupy at the words. He could pinpoint the moment Aziraphale changed tack.

“Of course,”Aziraphale added, “I'll be very cross if you happen in again and I discover something has destroyed it, so please do take care. I can wrap it up for you.” He bustled his way to the check-out counter. “Anything else?” he called over his shoulder. 

Crowley did not want to leave. He found himself still standing near the beanbag chairs and caught up in several long steps. “Anything more you could recommend? And if you _could_ find a second copy, I'd like for him to have one at his father's house too.”

Aziraphale looked up from what Crowley realized in surprise was an obsolete card catalog; it was obsolete to an online library but clearly being used here to keep track of inventory. “I'm fairly sure this has a sequel I don't own. I can locate one, though I'm afraid there's not much luck on a second copy. I'll look.” 

With an unbridled curiosity, Crowley watched as Aziraphale pulled a card from the drawer and tapped classically french manicured fingertips over the typed words. Aziraphale was as much as an antique as some of the books in this shop, he realized. 

“This asking price is a smidge over fifty pounds, I'm sorry to say,” he said without sounding sorry at all and with a expression Crowley was starting to mark as a mild challenge. “I'm sure it's much too high for a children's book. Perhaps it's best you find something elsewhere?” 

Crowley's apprehension over pushing too hard slipped away. Here was that bit of bastard he'd caught earlier, as early as his first words to Lucifer days ago. 

“I'll take my chances here,” he said and cocked an eyebrow in emphasis. Aziraphale finally, _finally_ grinned the same beaming smile Crowley'd thought he'd imagined from before. It sparked something inside that sizzled right from his core and into his fingertips and toes, like he'd accomplished some sort of feat. He glanced around the shop as Aziraphale packaged up his book in Kraft paper. He glanced at his watch. Still time. 

“So. You.” He froze, realizing he was about to reveal something to a member of the public he'd kept stuffed down for years. He watched as Aziraphale paused in writing up his bill by hand, regarding Crowley, expectant. “Do you keep an astronomy section?” Crowley mumbled, and he could feel his face grow warm. He bit anxiously at his lower lip. “Anything historical in astrophysics?” The way Aziraphale's expression shifted back to the parted-lip, bewildered fascination from earlier had Crowley growing unusually flustered. “I once took coursework in it,” he admitted and widened his eyes at what he'd just said. So much for his 'image' of brainless. He scrambled for his sunglasses and slid them back on. 

What the hell. 

Aziraphale was still watching him with that measured and interested gaze, almost studying him. “Let's have a look, shall we?” he said softly. 

Crowley followed as if pulled by string, his head fuzzy as Aziraphale described some of his stock. Aziraphale slid something from the shelf. He placed it into Crowley's hands. Crowley stared down stupidly at it.

“Great,” he said, knowing he would have said the same about anything Aziraphale handed him. Now _he_ was the one off-kilter. “I have your permission to buy this one?” he said, rallying his last traces of charisma into a bit of cheek. 

Aziraphale nodded and placed his hand flat on the book's cover as Crowley held it. “It'll have a good home with you. I can tell.” His eyes seemed to be searching for somewhere to rest now that Crowley had replaced his sunglasses. He nodded almost to himself and returned to the counter to add the second book to Crowley's ticket. 

“I've never had to ask permission to buy something for sale at a shop before,” he commented wryly as he rejoined Aziraphale. 

With a hummed acknowledgment, Aziraphale took the book from Crowley's hands and wrapped that one in Kraft paper as well. Then he unwound a length of twine to bundle the books together and tied some sort of complicated knot atop both books. “People purchase so many things they don't actually need. This is a much better system for all involved, and for the books.”

Crowley was back to staring at Aziraphale's nimble fingers again, riveted to their movements. He jerked aware and snorted an unexpected and very ungraceful laugh. Aziraphale looked up from his work and grinned at him like Crowley was fabulously witty. His chest went tight, and his heart gave a tremendous, life-changing thump of adoration, the first of what would be many. 

Aziraphale handed over the books. Crowley accepted them with both hands flattened out as if they were much more fragile than reality. He glanced down at the books and examined the knot now with increasing confusion. 

“How 'm I supposed to get that out?” he wondered.

Aziraphale glanced up at him, a mischievous little smile on his lips and both eyebrows arched with humor. He stepped closer, wordlessly looked up at him in the general direction of Crowley's eyes, then with a delicate tug of an end of string between the pads of his thumb index finger, the entire knot fell apart. “Or,” Aziraphale said, leaning forward and bouncing on his toes as if imparting great wisdom, “You cut it!” 

“Oh,” Crowley said, feeling ridiculous. 

“Scouts,” Aziraphale replied, really quite apologetically, Crowley thought, then leaned inward to retie the string right in Crowley's hands. Ringlets of Aziraphale's ash-blond hair fluffed inches from Crowley's face. He could smell Aziraphale's aftershave or shampoo or _something_ unique he would certainly remember later. He imagined how soft those curls might feel tucked against his neck. 

“Your name again, please?” Aziraphale said from the counter with his pen poised over his receipt book. Crowley blinked. And did so a second time as he had clearly blanked out. When had Aziraphale even stepped away? Where was his brain today, his usual smoothness? Wait, his name. 

Crowley could not stop his grin if he even bothered to try. He rarely was able to introduce himself anymore, and never twice to the same person. “Anthony Crowley.”

“Anthony Crowley. Ah. Yes.” Aziraphale began humming again as he took down the information.

Crowley rearranged the books to the crook of his elbow and handed over a wad of money he assumed would be enough to cover both. “You don't have a website,” he pointed out. “I looked.”

Aziraphale didn't look up. “Ah. I'm not really interested in updating technology if what I've got works. Phone please.” 

“My number, I gave it to you before, remember? That's a private line, not to the PA or agency, just text me.” 

He did look up at that. “Oh, I don't have mobile. I'll ring you when it arrives.”

Crowley's disbelief was hitting peak levels today. “You don't have cell...” he trailed off into another grin. 

“Oh no, too much fuss. I do have internet though,” Aziraphale informed with pride and waved at very old computer sitting on his desk Crowley thought had been an antique for sale. “I do much of my business on email. A friend helps with the Ebays and such, you know!”

“I _do_ know,” Crowley echoed quietly. He was utterly and quite unexpectedly charmed. He accepted his change and receipt from his purchases and glanced at his watch. He could make no more excuses to stay when he had to be somewhere across town in half an hour. 

“See you,” he said, very simply and nowhere near as suave as he liked his parting words to be in any situation. Right before he stepped through the door, he glanced over his shoulder. Something fluttering around inside him settled when he confirmed Aziraphale was watching him leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Libra horoscope from Shelby's astrology, November 2019, for Crowley and also how exactly was I supposed to resist that when it fit so well.


	5. Listening

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> opening horoscope from march 4 2020 astrology zodiac signs . com
> 
> There is some light harassment in this chapter at Crowley's place of work from his management that makes him uncomfortable

*

_Scorpio (for March)- Knowing what you’ve given so far, you also know that it is time to receive something in return, but things don’t seem to be moving in a logical direction today. Still, the Universe has a way of backing up some interpersonal holes and things that relationships lack. Be patient with yourself and the truth will inevitably set you free, as it always does.  
As rigid as some of your opinions can be, you know when they are in place. Question yourself as much as necessary but see that the healthy foundation to growth that is already there._

*

Crowley wished some of the buoyant feeling from his morning carried over to the meeting and subsequent photo shoot.

He'd made his rounds in the grunt work of fashion, but as his fame grew, so did opportunity. He continued to hit the runway for particular designers he favored, always fun in his books. The majority of his work now focused on stills and some film. He _himself_ was now shockingly a brand on it's own. Insane for a kid from nowhere out of foster care, he often thought. His contract with Celestial Bodies Modeling Agency gave him some maneuverability. No where near as much as he'd prefer. 

Like now for example. He was meant to relax and allow his stylist team to prepare him for the shoot this afternoon. Instead, Gabriel Celestial was in his face again over his image. Fuck his image. He opened his eyes in hopes feigning attentiveness would allow his manager-publicist to finish his ranting and shut up. 

“Whenever you spend time with your child, you grow soft and carry that baggage with you into the studio,” Gabriel was droning. He stepped aside to allow the manicurist and her intern to move away and smoothed his hands over the lapels of his dove gray suit. He didn't have the height of Lucifer or Crowley, or many of the models who were part of C.B. Still, something about Gabriel's bearing made Crowley feel small. Crowley slouched some into the seat. 

Gabriel smiled, a manic, toothy sort of thing as fake as his violet contacts. He patted Crowley on the elbow over the fluffy robe he wore and left his hand there. He leaned in closer to Crowley's ear, his breath a hot puff and his voice low. Crowley winced, stuck in place by his team's work. “Anthony Crowley is hardened. Sexy. Debauched. That's what they want. They know The Demon's got a heart of gold buried deep.” 

Tilting his head pulled his hair painfully, forcing Crowley unable to even shift. He glanced over at the intern finishing work on his nails. She met his eyes with pity and looked away. Great, he thought mournfully. Another fresh new face to the industry would need to distill this unspoken aspect of it all. 

“They all want to be the one to chip their way through the walls,” Gabriel went on. He drew back slightly from Crowley's ear, enough so Crowley could see the sleazy smile grow. “Can't give 'em their fantasy if you wear your heart on your sleeve,” he added, chuckling now as if the thought were preposterous.

Gabriel released Crowley's arm and paced around the chair in the already-tight prep room for this particular photography studio at C.B. London. He gestured and raised his voice some in his enthusiasm. “They want the fantasy, the chance to be pinned down by the naughty Demon with a wicked smile. Not someone cuddling a toddler!” 

Crowley tried not roll his eyes with his own decorative contacts in, a piercing green today. He wished enhancements would be added in post-production, but Celestial Bodies prided itself on no digital alteration to the body, no drugs, no smoking. It was a selling point to Crowley in his early years. And why Lucifer the Morningstar DeVil still worked with them out-of-contract in spite of being a household name, never mind that Lucifer and Gabriel were old school chums. C.B. still fell to most the other sins of the industry. 

“Are you listening, Crowley?” Gabriel snapped, back in Crowley's face. Crowley could sense the styling team was annoyed but wouldn't say anything to their superior. Gabriel's parents created C.B.M.A. years ago, and he held their employment in his hands. “I've heard it said someone in my circle of influence has strayed from their true calling. I need to be firm. Guide them back to their best self,” Gabriel added, the plastic smile re-affixed. 

“Right,” Crowley finally said after keeping his tongue too long. Maybe Gabriel would leave? The manicurist intern thankfully switched sides and the hairstylist's work softened up for a moment. Crowley took advantage and pushed back further into the seat. He heard his hairstylist, Hastur, mutter something uncomplimentary over both Crowley and Gabriel beneath his breath. 

Gabriel's circling drew him close to Crowley again. “This client didn't request just any model from us, Crowley. They want the Demon. They expect the Demon. You're falling away from your true calling.” He leaned closer, propping his wide hands on the arms of the chair, his voice dropped low like it was a secret. He nearly boxed Crowley uncomfortably in. “She's saying it's up to me. I should be firm with you. Guide you.” 

Crowley slid his head back and away and bared his teeth in a sneer. With the hairstylist at his back and the intern still buffing his nails, he felt trapped. His hair tugged uncomfortably within his hairdresser's fingers. He pulled his hands away from the intern and crossed his arms in the scant space between himself and Gabriel. His heart thumped entirely too fast against his breastbone.

“She. Did Nutter pop out of obscurity and tell you herself?” he hissed. But it got Gabriel to back away. 

Gabriel smoothed his styled, short brown hair and moved his hands over his suit, adjusting as he went along. “I think it's wise to consider all avenues of advice,” he said authoritatively, but Crowley'd known him too long, had been stuck in countless conversations between Lucifer's vocal praise for astrology and Agnes Nutter in particular verses Gabriel's shame over his own adherence. All along Crowley would beg Michael with pathetic glances for rescue from the ridiculousness of it all. 

“You act like I haven't been around you or Lucifer for nearly the whole last decade,” Crowley said sulkily. He turned his head aside, and Hastur snarled at him.

“Don't force me to dunk your head underwater and start over,” Hastur bit out as he flicked the point of a teasing comb over Crowley's curls. He draped them down Crowley's back over his robe to complete the look the client wanted. “This hair is nearly perfect. Why it's attached to your scrawny backside is a mystery.” 

Crowley just grunted, frustrated with all of them now. Today's shoot had him in soft lighting, an unbuttoned Versace forest green silk shirt, dark silk boxers that barely covered his modesty, and barefoot. He'd be shot from the front with his head tilted downward and from the rear as he peered coyly over his shoulder while prepping some sort of food at a marble and stainless kitchen island. Then he'd have freedom to improvise as discussed in their meeting. He hadn't really paid attention to what he was selling- the marble countertop, he thought- but it certainly sounded like a playful, comfortable still shoot if Gabriel would bugger off. 

“So sorry I'm running behind!” Crowley's cosmetologist and makeup artist, the Fabulous Madame Tracy elbowed her way past Gabriel, much to his displeasure based on his expression. She scooted a stool close to Crowley and dragged over her cart of cosmetics, shooing the intern away. Her wig glowed a brassy strawberry blonde, and her personal makeup palate appeared bright and cheerful. Crowley felt himself relax incrementally. 

She reached to guide his chin softly and pressed a foundation to his cheek. “Perhaps you might allow us to finish, Gabriel?” she suggested boldly. “I'm sure Michael has loads to update you on?” Tracy had award cred and was once known in her younger days around both film and theater for her skills. With so many other grouchy staff members at C.B., she'd immediately become one of Crowley's favorites when the Board of Directors of Celestial Bodies fell over themselves to hire her. 

Gabriel's face went tight, but he drifted away at the mention of his P.A. Even he wouldn't make an ass of himself before Madame Tracy. 

“He's spoiling my good morning, Tracy,” Crowley whined as she swapped foam wedges. He eased his eyes shut again and tilted his head how she wanted. 

“Not that I'm one to critique,” Madame Tracy said as she worked at blending, “but Gabriel doesn't seem to have a handle on what your target audience actually wants from you.” 

“I know what part of me Gabriel would like a 'handle on',” he quipped and slit one eye open to see if his joke landed. 

“Oh you,” Tracy giggled and smacked his arm. 

Crowley relaxed into the chair and let his thoughts wander to the morning. His morning _was_ surprisingly good for how it began. If he could scoop Warlock's words and stuff them into his chest, he would. And then after; Aziraphale Fell was the oddest and most interesting person he'd encountered in far too long. He was fascinatingly different, his clothes, his mannerisms, the little bounce in his step.

His tightly wound muscles finally softened. He went languid cradled in the chair. He remained still, fighting his natural fidget as Tracy penciled color onto his lips. He wondered if Aziraphale would realize he was _that_ Anthony Crowley, or at the very least, if he'd remember him. Crowley tended to leave an impression wherever he went, whether he wanted to or not. And this time he'd _wanted_.

“Have you ever just looked at someone and just-” he paused while Tracy worked something around his eyes. 

“Be still, sweetie.” She tipped his head down. “What were you saying? Have I ever looked at someone and wanted to haul off and smack 'em even if it might mean your job?”

Crowley snorted. “No. Oh, well yes for that, but I mean,” he stopped and reopened his eyes as she turned to her cart. “I don't know what I mean. Someone's made a big impression on you but you aren't sure if you have on them?” That didn't even make sense in his own head, but Madame Tracy chuckled. 

Her gentle expression took up most his view as she leaned inward with a mascara wand. It was nothing like Gabriel's abrasiveness. “I don't think you need to worry about that, dear. You'd be noticed even if you were their cab driver. Now you just rest here and allow me to finish. Hisself has been so critical of you lately. You don't need that stress.”

“Yeah,” he sighed and allowed his eyes to drift closed again. Maybe she was right. On that very first day he and Lucifer entered the bookshop, Crowley'd immediately glanced at Aziraphale's lovely plump hand to check for a ring- the lack of which really meant nothing in this non-traditional world. He'd taken note of the pride flags and stickers adorning the bookshop as he settled with Adam upon his lap to read. Promising, but not certain as the entire neighborhood tended to be welcoming. He felt a connection that day with the bookseller; he was sure of it. But this morning, Aziraphale had struggled to recall him. Curious. 

But pursuing how Aziraphale had responded today could be worth it. Crowley imagined burying his nose in Aziraphale's hair. Wrapping long arms around his shorter, stocky build. In his preferred heels, Crowley would tower over him. Tower over him, and perhaps press him to the wall of books. Maybe that well-built shelving he'd leaned against, that'd do. Crowley might tease out a delighted moan like the one that'd escaped Aziraphale's lips at the bakery...except it'd be all for him this time...

“Get up, lazybones.” Crowley jerked alert from his drowsy state. Tracy had moved on. Instead, Michael Archangel somehow managed to glare at him while still keeping most her attention on a tablet atop a stuffed three-ring-binder. “You're with a new photographer. Word says he's phenomenal but aloof, so nothing new there.” She smiled brief and hard as she stepped back from the chair he sprawled in. He stumbled off like an unsteady colt on new footing. 

“Put something into it. Gabriel's pissed at you,” she added with a sharp jerk of her chin toward his manager outside the prep room. 

“When isn't he?” Crowley lamented as he shed his robe and straightened the waistband of the boxers. The cool air on bare skin made him shiver. The studio would be warmer, but he wished the stylist team would have left the shirt.

“He didn't-” Michael began and paused, uncharacteristically. Crowley glanced over at her. “Tracy mentioned he might have been. Improper.”

Crowley's eyes widened with surprise. This sort of thing tended to go without mention at Celestial Bodies, or more realistically, _anywhere else_ within the industry. “No more than usual,” he said carefully in case she was testing him. She, Lucifer, and Gabriel had been thick as thieves when he'd first been scouted by Gabriel long ago. 

She only nodded once, her lips back into a firm line. 

“How's Warlock?” he asked to push through the uncomfortable atmosphere now building. 

Michael's eyes darted to the corners of the prep-room. She frowned. Crowley knew she disliked allusions at work of how much time she spent with Lucifer. And though he didn't know why, Crowley tended to respect that. 

“He's home. Lucifer rearranged his own schedule since you've got this today. He won't have anyone else but Nanny Ash care for the boys.”

“And you.” Crowley rolled his spine luxuriously and flexed his fingers. Move and stretch now or he'd never get through an entire photoshoot. He hated growing stiff in prep. 

She said nothing and exhaled a sharp puff of air through her nose. Her expression betrayed little. 

“How's Lucifer?” he wondered, now bending at the waist to stretch hip flexors. He surreptitiously glanced around before really pushing into the move. If Hastur realized he was chancing misplaced hair he'd never hear the end of it. 

Crowley caught the slightest curl of one corner of her lips. Fleeting, of course. By the time he stood upright and feeling much warmer, her impenetrable facade had returned. She flipped nonchalantly through the binder of production pages she held. 

“Berating himself for not interpreting Agnes Nutter properly, of course.” 

“Fucking Agnes,” Crowley spit out. “I swear. And Gabriel's just as bad, but you won't see him admit it.” 

Michael's eyes searched Crowley's face. “Lucifer's exhausted. Early morning phone call, then he was still too tipsy to drive. I picked him up. It was all emotional babbling over Lilith. Over you. I think your words from a few years ago are finally sinking in.”

“Took long enough.” Crowley was still touchy over anything he and Lucifer fought over during their relationship. He turned away from Michael but watched her through a side-glance. He picked at the onyx nail lacquer and mused on whether he should dye his hair black again. 

“He's nostalgic and attached. I don't blame him,” she defended. “Milton? Lilith? You?” she said, sharper now. “Devoted forever as long as he deems you worthy of flaunting like a showpiece-”

Crowley swung his head with lazy movement in her direction to study her as foreign emotion seeped into her voice. She was intently focusing her attention to a page that hardly required such scrutiny. 

“You're an idiot if you don't think you count as part of his whole-” he waved a hand around in the air, searching for a word. His brain oddly supplied Adam's duck book. “His whole flock,” he added, satisfied. 

She looked up at him, eyes narrowed. “Gabriel needs the Demon for this client, so if you want him off your ass, put yours to work.” With that, she walked past him. He felt drained and a little raw. 

“ 'Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more; Or close the wall up with our Celestial Bodied dead',” he muttered under his breath, twisting the quote in spite. And if he added a bit more hip than necessary to his stride to psych himself for the shoot, that was between himself and his own insecurity.


	6. Reality

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pisces horoscope from horoscope . com
> 
> Anathema's theory over Paul McCartney being dead for years is a HUGE and long-lived bit of conspiracy I find entertaining

*

_Pisces- The more you can apply to your own life the advice you give to others, the better off you'll be, Pisces. No one is going to follow a leader who doesn't abide by his or her own standards. If you're going to offer your guidance to someone else, make sure you're willing to operate by the same rules and accept feedback regarding their effectiveness._

*

Aziraphale managed a passable Tokyo-dialect Japanese from years of study, or at least acceptable enough to the owners and staff of his favorite neighborhood sushi and shasimi restaurant. He'd known them forever, long enough to enjoy all the different trends passing through. The restaurant had been in his and Anathema's weekly lunch rotation since they initiated the tradition. 

Anathema had gone from avoiding fish at all costs to reluctantly embracing a little, though she remained a vegetarian in all other ways. Pescatarian, she'd once told him over her California rolls. Aziraphale was satisfied with trying everything. 

He'd ordered chef's best for the day and bit into a delicious offering now, nodding along with Anathema. 

“What I don't understand,” she was saying, “is why they're still insisting Paul McCartney is alive when so much evidence still points to the cover-up. The album covers alone!”

“I wish I could tell you,” Aziraphale said kindly. He'd already retreaded this conversation quite often, enough to know when to steer her away from anything Beetles and god forbid, Elvis. “But my dear girl, this always gets you so upset. Perhaps something more pleasant?” 

Anathema's wavy chestnut hair was pulled back into a bun, revealing her bright eyes and graceful neck. She kept a similar taste in clothing to Aziraphale, older styles that leaned more Gothic in her case and unchanged, even since her marriage. Aziraphale had known her forever it seemed; she was the first he'd told when he'd realized he was gay right before they'd taken some of the last of their GCSEs. The first to step into the shop he'd bought with the money from his late parents' estate.

She was the first the authorities notified when they'd come upon the automobile wreck that took his parents' lives. The same crash that'd thrown him into slow recovery from his nearly fatal head injury. 

She was from Before. 

He'd opted not to return to university after eighteen months of grueling recovery. He would never be the same; he was slower. Forgetful. It was easier to hide in the little bookshop he'd created. He might've been swallowed by it all if his dear best friend Anathema hadn't stopped by one day, asking, “You still dabble in astrology, right? I'm adding to my publishing house. Would you knock together a simple horoscope for my flagship magazine?” And, “Of course, Aziraphale, we could publish it under a pen name. Whatever you need.”

Agnes Nutter joined the world one overly warm August afternoon nearly fifteen years from this moment, a Leo just like Aziraphale, whether by coincidence or fate. He'd never thought to question the timing. 

“So let's talk about your book,” Anathema said after one last Beatle-centric rant, accepting the conversational shift. “I'm still willing to publish it under both your real name and Agnes',” she coaxed. 

Aziraphale shook his head aggressively. “No, no thank you. Agnes will do. And I've got three more chapters to draft before I'm finished. I also have two articles on the conscious mind in the third house and the work-life bits of the sixth for you as well,” he tapped a folder resting out of the way on the tabletop. 

“I wish you would. You deserve the respect, Aziraphale,” she said. She took another bite and watched him with some sadness in her expression. 

“Agnes has respect for her writing,” he said, pushing his food around his plate. He still could eat, but needed a moment. “And as I'm Agnes, clearly the transitive property is at play. We've rehashed this already, Anathema. I'm not capable of being the Aziraphale of before anyhow.” 

“Aziraphale, you are the same person you were,” Anathema soothed. 

Another nearly fifteen years of retreaded ground. Aziraphale didn't view it as she did with her unflagging optimism. He no longer fenced or participated in activities requiring intense coordination. He struggled with adapting to change and preferred to take his time. He'd spent months reteaching himself to type, to write, dropping beads into bottles and tying thousands of knots until the Occupational and Physiotherapists were satisfied. _But you could move forward and you know it,_ a little voice whispered in his head he squashed down immediately. 

“No, I'm happy the way things are,” Aziraphale said. “I'm satisfied with things being quiet and predicable. No,” he added, knowing she would understand, “Let Agnes have all the attention and mystery. I don't need public acknowledgment to make me happy.” And leave Agnes and her reclusive ways a tantalizing mystery so no one would see what was lacking behind the curtain. 

“You're content,” Anathema said after a comfortable pause. “With our lunches, and dinners with Newt and I. And your books and your astrology.”

“I am.” Aziraphale replied. He felt comforted by her friendship and dipped something off his plate of sashimi moriawase in soy to take a delightful bite. “Though I wouldn't be adverse to adding a tryst with a strapping young man,” he added, timing it just as she'd taken a sip of her soda. 

“Aziraphale!” she scolded through he laughter. “You made me snort the carbonation. Thank you for that.”

He grinned, elated, and plucked another piece from the platter before him. Scrumptious.

“AZIRAPHALE! I forgot!” she shouted suddenly, too loud for this particular restaurant, nearly startling him into his own embarrassing bout with their meal. 

“Goodness, what?” he answered once he'd swallowed the tuna without choking. 

“Hang on,” she scrolled though her mobile, the most devious expression he'd seen on her face in ages. “What were you, Aziraphale Fell, doing sitting at Sweet Treat Bakery with Anthony the Demon Crowley?”

His stomach swooped as if he'd missed a step on the stairwell. He lowered his hand with a sliver of pickled ginger still tucked between his fingertips.“What?” was all he could manage. 

“The Demon? Only one of the most famous supermodels in the world?” She slid her mobile across the table so he could see. 

“Oh. Oh dear,” he said, stunned, as he peered at the photo from a moment he remembered quite clearly now- Crowley helping himself to the seat near him and teasing him over his shop hours. Thankfully, Aziraphale's back was to the camera, but his hair was fairly well recognized in this neighborhood and that particular sweatervest rather distinctive from the rear. Crowley's eyes were obscured with sunglasses. His long ginger hair was very noticeable in the photo though, and the sly smile he'd been using while bribing Aziraphale was certainly... also noticeable. If one wanted to _notice_ such things. 

“He's pretty much everywhere. Magazines. Billboards. There's a calendar,” she said, this time with an exaggerated finger wiggle. 

Aziraphale handed the mobile back and nudged his glasses further onto the bridge of his nose. He thought on how Crowley genuinely seemed to be flirting with him that day. So not just out of Aziraphale's league; Crowley was completely unattainable. Whoops. All the sordid little fantasies he'd spun from the thread of interest he'd thought he'd detected faded away. Crowley's entire air of seductiveness must have been 'the Demon's' natural magnetism. He wasn't sure whether he should be flattered to be worthy of flirting with or if Crowley thought him pathetic enough to bamboozle into getting his way. 

“You should see your face,” Anathema said, laughing, but lightly and in understanding. “I'd probably be the same. _Newt_ would be the same!” She scrolled through images and flipped the phone outward for Aziraphale to view. “I rather like July myself,” she said. 

“I see,” he managed. And he couldn't unsee. He'd been clinging tight so as not to forget the mental image of Crowley watching for his response with soft, vulnerable eyes as he asked over astronomy books like he'd been embarrassed over it. 

This Crowley in the photo seemed almost feral- the same amber eyes, but simmering with a sensual heat, beckoning you near. Long, luscious ginger hair wild and windblown, with several bright copper strands caught upon his pouting lower lip. Toned chest bare other than a platinum chain necklace gently captured within elegant fingers just beneath graceful collarbones. Crowley kneeled in sand with thighs spread wide upon the beach, back arched and sinuous and chin tipped just the slightest into the sun, damp sand dusting light bronze skin while sparkling rivulets of water skimmed the lines of his taut belly. It glistened in bright droplets as it caught onto the dark, ginger hair beneath Crowley's navel and – Good Lord, why bother with swim briefs if the wet nylon would just highlight everything and- 

Aziraphale pushed the phone away to Anathema's renewed giggles. His face had to be scarlet by how warm he'd gone. “Yes, July's lovely,” he managed to choke out. He shot her an expression of disbelief and joined in her humor. “Well he didn't look like _that_ in the shop, Anathema!” he huffed dryly. 

“I'm sorry,” she said with a cheek splitting grin. “But now I'm picturing your face if he _had_ visited your shop all wet and sandy. Everyone else would be falling over themselves, and you'd be clucking at him for getting the beach all over your books!” 

They both dissolved in shared mirth. Oh, how much he adored Anathema and how grateful he was she'd stuck around through the hard bits of recovery so long ago. He had so few friends even then, but one good one was worth a handful of passing acquaintances. 

“So the tall blond fellow with him on the first day, with their little boy,” he said finally after signaling the waitstaff for a second drink, “the one who ordered that rare _Cosmetology and Style Issues_ book I mentioned keeping an eye out for? He also was-” he stopped himself as he tried to find an alternative to 'ridiculously gorgeous and clearly not an everyday customer.' 

“You met Lucifer DeVil too?” she said and actually put her glass back down in her surprise. “Now I'm doubly jealous. That's the Morningstar, even more famous than the Demon. They had this steamy affair going for years. It was everywhere. I'm sure neither of them are human.” She fanned herself with her hand in jest, and Aziraphale rolled his eyes at her. 

“Since they've both ordered books from me,” he said, “perhaps I'll let you know when they come in so you might be conveniently browsing?” he suggested. 

“Hmmm. Perhaps. Would it be weird if I asked for a sample of DNA to trace their alien ancestors?” she wondered aloud. Aziraphale took a very long swallow of his wine and ducked his head so he wouldn't have to answer the question. 

*

Later that evening, Aziraphale had flipped his sign to closed and had walked past his computer numerous times, tempted to sit down and search. He made cocoa and distracted himself with a novel before he gave in. As he waited for the old machine to connect, he thought back on the last few days. Supermodel or not, Crowley still clearly adored his child. The flash of uncertainty he'd allowed to slip out when he'd asked over books on astrophysics didn't seem feigned. Or maybe Aziraphale was just soft, thrown by Crowley's attractiveness into seeing things he wished. 

The search page loaded with much lag. He typed in “Anthony Crowley the model”, leaving out the demon moniker for the moment. The processor cranked hard, the entire tower whirring ominously, and the computer retrieved a page of results. He clicked on one- an article from _Men's Health_ he'd hoped would be less of a gossip page. He waited and waited and – nope. Timed out. He tried several more and eventually something from _British GQ_ began downloading onto his page. The image was too much, replaced with a placeholder and descriptive text reading, 'Supermodel Anthony Crowley returns to his roots and stirs gender-defying controversy as he walks for Louis Vuitton in women's wear for London Fashion Week at Somerset House.' 

He glanced over at the tower to his computer, considering it's age for the first time. Yet another item he'd clung to from Before, it appeared an anchor rather than comfort when studied in new light. The article at least loaded, some indie fashion site, he presumed, but most of the context was unfamiliar to him. The discussion on re-examining gender conformity in fashion was more recognizable, but what Aziraphale had really wanted to see was more of the public face of Anthony Crowley.

“You silly thing,” he said and yielded to the humor of it all. He was one of many, he was sure, who'd met those unusual eyes, that sly curl of lip, and had gone a little gooey inside. He vowed to himself to enjoy his little encounter with someone so famous, with in fact, _two_ celebrity supermodels. Perhaps he'd have to allow the little flame of hope he'd been nurturing blink out, but at least he wasn't alone in experiencing a bit of a crush. With that in mind, he decided to get a head start on his next Nice and Accurate Horoscope for the following week's print. 

“Wait.” He clicked on a large 'page back' arrow to the search page again and typed in 'anthony crowley birth date.' He tapped his fingers on the mousepad as the computer worked again, the fan kicking in obnoxiously loud as his aged software battled pop-up ads. “Aha,” he said aloud to himself. “October 21, 1991. Libra. Oh,” he said, softer now. “Very compatible with Leo.” 

He closed out the window and leaned back into his desk chair. The flickering spark nestled in his heart refused to smother out.


	7. Scorpio Rising

*

_Rejoice, Leo! With a pumped-up Libra moon charging up your collaborative, communicative third house, you're a one-lion dream team. Expect a successful boost to your business endeavors with the help of new connections. Treat yourself to a power lunch at a healthy restaurant and you just might be able to quit an hour early and get a jump start on all those super-social evening plans!_

*

The following Monday, Crowley met up with Lucifer at a photoshoot specifically for Adam. Both boys were signed with an agency skewing to representing children. While Crowley had eventually capitulated on involving Adam, Warlock had been part of Alphabet even as an infant. As time had passed, Crowley circled their photoshooots and Warlock's minor acting roles like a hawk, alternately regretting and making peace with the boys' involvement in the world Crowley and Lucifer inhabited. 

Today's was for a catalog spread and website for a children's clothing line. At the moment, Crowley sat in one of a row of chairs set up along the wall with Warlock while Lucifer micromanaged the photographer, stylists, and production aides. 

Warlock leaned in and took a selfie of himself and Crowley. “This one's going on Snapchat with dog ears, pop,” he said to Crowley. 

“Sure. Gabriel will _love_ that. Do it.” He'd taken a selfie of his own earlier for his Instagram feed, a mirror reflection of his slim-fit tuxedo-cut Zegna suit paired with a red tie and fire-engine red Louboutin stilettos. 

“I don't like Gabriel,” Warlock grumbled. “He always calls me sport or scout or other dumb stuff.”

Crowley winced as Lucifer cornered the producer. “Nobody likes Gabriel,” he said absently as he climbed to his feet and walked over to corral his ex. Adam began the shoot in good spirits, but he was tiring of the clothing changes by this point and getting cranky. They needed to move forward; there was no time for Lucifer's histrionics.

“Hey,” he said in greeting, keeping it on the casual side as he approached the two. “What's the hold up?”

“ _Bert_ here,” Lucifer waved his hand around the production assistant, “thinks it's perfectly fine for absolutely zero stylists to mar their schedules with a low-profile children's shoot. They've sent _interns_.” His eyes narrowed and slid toward 'Bert' before meeting Crowley's and going wide and beseeching. “Love, tell this...inexperienced boar our son should not be subjected to- to amateurs!” 

Bert also glanced at Crowley with a pleading expression, but one that read ' _help with this jackass_ '. 

Crowley was already irritated with the entire thing; children required careful handling and protection if you've dragged them into the spotlight. “Lucifer.” He threaded his arm through Lucifer's and drew him away. “Quit making this take longer.”

“You didn't even want him here,” Lucifer accused, but he kept his voice soft. 

“No. No! Of course I didn't want him here.” He dragged Lucifer further out of the way and manhandled him toward the wall opposite of where Warlock was slumped. “I didn't want Warlock in that children's series either when he wasn't sure he wanted to keep acting, but did you listen to my concerns?”

Lucifer cupped a hand against the side of Crowley's neck and made shushing noises. “Now love,”he said gently, “don't fuss, we want only the best for our boys, don't we?”

Crowley stepped back so Lucifer's hand would slide away. Even after their divorce had finalized, he'd slipped up and fallen into bed with Lucifer, only to be disappointed in himself when he remembered all the reasons he'd left. This was one of them, this coddling, this belief Lucifer held that he knew what was best for everyone unless it came from the pen of Agnes fucking Nutter herself. 

Before he could say anything, Lucifer's mobile vibrated in his pocket, and with a quick glance at it and at Warlock, he whispered, “Lilith, finally.” He walked off to speak to her. Crowley sighed in relief. 

The session had gone forward. He made his way back toward Adam and hovered silently behind the photographer. The team appeared efficient and comfortable working together. Lucifer was just being his snobbish prick self, he concluded. 

Some time passed and brought several clothing changes and a quick shifting of the set. Crowley watched Adam move from a reluctant enjoyment of getting to hold new toys and show off new clothing to a wobbly lipped sadness barely holding back tears. 

“I do' wanna do this no more,” Adam said, quiet and sounding more exhausted than anything else. He sat on the floor mid pose and kicked at a stuffed bear near his bare foot. 

Crowley snapped to attention and walked right in front of the photography equipment. “We're done here,” he said sharply but not in any accusation.

“We've still got a few more to go,” Bert said. He flipped through a clipboard. 

“We're. Done.” Crowley lifted Adam from the floor while he still wore the pajama set he'd been modeling. He drew him to his chest and tucked his head, his glare challenging the staff he'd been comfortable with not more than an hour earlier. The photographer, someone Crowley had worked with before, stepped back from his equipment. 

“Hey,” he said, placing his lenscap over the glass, “I'm not forcing a kid who's been great the entire session. You wanna piss off the Demon?” he added to Bert, who was pacing along the side of the set. 

“The contract between Alphabet Kids and Stitches Children's Apparel specifically states-” 

Crowley turned and walked away, his heels clacking hard. He settled Adam next to Warlock with a whispered, “Let Daddy go growl at some grown-ups, okay?” 

The door to the studio swung open just then. Lucifer swanned in, displeasure written all over his expression even as he smiled. “Darlings,” he bit out after a quick scan of the room. “Why've we stopped?”

“Ask your cranky other half,” Bert said. He tapped the back of the clipboard and directed his ire at Crowley. 

Crowley's head snapped over in his direction. “He's done,” he hissed, livid now. He started off toward the assistant, and this time, Lucifer was the one to snatch him at the elbow and redirect. 

“Love,” Lucifer said. “Why on earth would you pull Adam, especially without _any_ encouragement to finish up. There's only- how many wardrobe changes left?” he called out the last while still pinning Crowley with a look of disappointment. 

“Three!”

“See, love, only three more. We could've-”

Crowley shook off Lucifer's arm and tightened both fists. “He. Is. Tired. I let you put him through this fool thing, but I told you, the _second_ he didn't-” he cut himself off when he remembered they had an audience. 

Lucifer was staring at Crowley intently, his lips narrowed in a firm line. “You spoil him. And Warlock. But you're babying Adam.” 

“Spoiling? _Spoiling!_ ” Crowley immediately forgot he was being watched and flung his hands in the air. His blood was boiling. He threw his shoulders back and lifted his chin. He'd fancied the notion he looked powerful and sexy in his suit and Louboutins earlier, but now he felt it as he channeled his anger. “When Adam was an infant I told you I didn't want his life to become the circus you and Lilith were putting Warlock through before I was in the picture. If he's having fun, that's one thing.” He leaned forward, nearly into Lucifer's face, now dropping his voice low enough it wouldn't echo throughout the studio. “But if he's upset, I will _burn this place down_ before you force him to be a Barbie doll against his will.” With that, he spun and stalked back to where Adam and Warlock were watching with wide eyes. 

“Let's go,” he snapped at them and went straight for the door, Adam still in the designer pajama set but no longer barefoot. Warlock did that, Crowley thought. Stepping in to help his little brother even while he moped over his own mother's mishandling. His heart pounded an agitated rhythm echoed in his ears. The reality of what he'd just done crashed through and set his fingers trembling. He slowed his pace and turned to see the boys following silently, hand in hand. Warlock was unsuccessfully trying to hide a huge grin, and that did more to balm over Crowley's anger than anything else. Gabriel would be pleased he'd just fed The Demon rumormill. Fabulous. He was certain potato quality mobile phone video would hit the gossip websites within the hour. 

“That was wicked, pop!” Warlock said as he began climbing into the car. 

“ _That_ was stupid.” He began to settle Adam into his car seat and nearly jumped when he felt the pressure of a hand at his back. He squeezed his eyes shut, opened them, and wished he'd dug out his sunglasses before awkwardly stepping from where he'd been hunched over Adam's child seat. 

“I smoothed it all over,” Lucifer said when Crowley met his deep brown eyes which, Crowley was pleased to note, seemed apologetic. 

“I didn't need you to do that,” Crowley grumbled. His anger slid to a peeved simmer, and he crossed his arms at his chest and leaned against the closed Bentley door. 

“Agnes did say for me to' beware the bite of a serpent today if you agitate it too much'. I thought it might be that awful production person. I didn't expect it to be you, love. Your Scorpio ascendant's popping it's head out.”

“That Nutter garbage.” Crowley shook his head. His hair tangled in an irritating mess. “Sometimes stuff just happens.”

“You study your stars and leave me to follow mine.” Lucifer opened one of the Bentley doors, leaned in, and said with all sincerity, “Father is very sorry for not noticing you were tired, Adam. We'll finish another day.” 

Crowley watched through the glass while Adam nodded back at Lucifer. He relaxed a notch more. Lucifer could be a gigantic ass, but he never would fake an apology to anyone. That part, at least, was one of his charms both the public and Crowley had latched onto. Pity the rest of him could be such a chore. 

“Love, about Lilith,” Lucifer began once he'd closed the car door. 

“What about her.” Crowley felt wary. He loosened his folded arms and slipped his hands into his pockets.

“She's 'ever so sorry' she didn't think it through when she sent Warlock home, and she thought her P.A. had confirmed with 'one of my people.'” 

“How kind.” Oh look. He was angry again. 

“My love, don't blame her, she tries.”

“Tell that to Warlock,” Crowley snarled. 

“I know, I know,” Lucifer said, holding his hands up to placate, which annoyed Crowley further. “We'll re-evaluate if we allow visitation. And we'll take Warlock's opinion into consideration.”

It settled some of Crowley's ruffled hackles. “Fine.” 

“But. I need a favor. He wasn't meant to be home yet and the Nanny won't be back until next week. I know I usually have Warlock midweek when the tutor comes, so do you mind taking him those days since you've got Adam? I've got that fitting with Prada and you know how _their people_ are. 

“Always. It's not a _favor!_ ” he hissed. “He's my son, of course he'll come with me." In fact, Crowley preferred it right now, no matter how fluidity they treated their custody agreement for each child. He climbed behind the driver's wheel in a snit over being asked. A favor. For Christ's sake. When he'd legally adopted his step-son at the time, Lilith had _willingly_ surrendered parental responsibility for Warlock but wanted an occasional visitation. Crowley was all for non-traditional families and keeping bonds together, but Lilith was so irresponsible it was only hurting Warlock. 

“I know love, I'm sorry. She still twists me up, that woman.” Lucifer blew an air-kiss Crowley winced at as he rolled down the window. “She's got me twisted, you've got me tied, and lord knows how often Michael's threatened to put me on a leash over the years I've known her. Who knew I'd be so into bondage. That was _your_ kink, not mine, I recall,” he said jovially but much quieter, presumably so little ears wouldn't hear. He winked as he spun away. 

“Piss off!” Crowley shouted as he rolled-up the window and flipped him a V before pulling away from the curb, blushing at the ears. 

They drove in silence for several minutes until Adam called out, “Daddy, chicken wuggets?”

Crowley scrunched his nose in distaste but grunted an agreement. His phone took that moment to chime an incoming call from a number he didn't recognize, but very few people had this number.

“Go on,” he said, choosing to answer. 

_“Yes hello? Is this the telephone number for Anthony Crowley?”_

Ah, the adorable little bookseller. Crowley experienced a sudden uptick in his mood. “Hello there, Aziraphale!” he said cheerfully, dragging the name out as he'd done at the coffeeshop. “What can I do for you?” He resisted jamming the break in deference to the children being in the car when someone cut him off, but only barely. 

_“I've got your books in, both of them. You were in luck!”_ His voice sounded just as posh as it had in person. 

Crowley glanced behind at the boys. Adam held a stuffed dog in his lap. Warlock was back on his phone. “I think I can manage to swing round.”

_“Oh good. I mean, that'll be be fine, whenever it's convenient for you. Keeping in mind my open hours, of course.”_

“Your hours are designed especially to drive people bonkers, you realize?” Crowley said, enjoying needling him. 

_“Are they. Goodness.”_

It was the most deadpan delivery Crowley'd ever heard conveyed over a phone line. He fought back a smile. “Be seeing you then,” he said and disconnected. The heaviness lodged in his gut from the day began crumbling away. 

“Who was that?” Warlock asked. Crowley peeked over his shoulder again and saw that he'd put his phone down and was watching with the barest smirk, nearly a mirror image of his father. 

“Someone I ordered Adam some books from. We'll pick them up since Adam's had a rough day and then go for dinner. Sound good? Why do you ask?” He look back at the road and swerved around an idiot who'd opened a door into his lane. 

“Because.” Warlock's words were now colored with an amused tone. Crowley glanced back at him again quickly and then back forward. “You just had _the_ goofiest face right now.”

Crowley tried his best not to grin. “Did I.” He said, mimicking Aziraphale's cadence. “Goodness.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter's Leo scope from astrostyle .com 
> 
> I have one more chapter sent back to me from beta I'm hoping to correct and post this week. Then she's on spring break, which might mean a gap. 
> 
> I am ballparking it ending up 50 chapters because my first draft is 54 sections, but I know for sure she's suggesting I combine a few where it makes sense to do so. It is taking way less time for me to post now that I'm getting the hang of it and putting html beyond paragraphs right in the document! 
> 
> All of Crowley's (and anyone else's) clothing selections have been crowd-sourced. Sometimes I had to google to see what they were talking about to see if it fit the scene in my head!


	8. Testing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> opening horoscope for gemini from astrology . com teenscope for middle-schoolers and teens

*  
_Gemini- You are hoping for a big change in your life, though you may not be totally sure what it is that you want, exactly. Focus on one issue at a time until it all starts to clear up._

Anathema was certainly quite skilled enough to cast her own horoscope, but Aziraphale found comfort in putting together something detailed for her personally. When Newt entered the picture several years ago, she'd been following his suggestions based off an ideal combination of activity in her 7th house. Aziraphale would always carry his doubts deep down in his heart, but it had certainly worked in her favor. 

He reached for another book while carefully rechecking her natal chart. “Ascendant in Aries, that was it,” he whispered to himself. But so was her north node of the moon, which meant she had some issues to work on in the areas of learning to trust and love herself. 

Casting his own detailed horoscope was something he tended to avoid since the Crash. It happened rarely now, but he still endured an occasional bad day where he wondered- if he'd just been a little bit better with astrology, a little less cavalier, would he have known? If it hadn't been a teenage hobby, something he put mostly aside when he focused on English Lit at Exeter. Would he have thought to convince his parents they needn't drive him back that evening fifteen years ago? Thank you, no, but I'll wait on the bus tomorrow morning when it wasn't murky and storming and a drunken fool might not be on the slippery winding road? 

When the bell upon his door chimed out it's pleasant tinkle, he was unusually prepared to welcome a break. Fortunately so, since when he slapped his deign-to-tolerate expression on his face, he could actually pinpoint the moment it's falseness become genuinely welcoming when he realized it was Anthony Crowley.

Anthony Crowley, Anthony Crowley. He'd spoken it to himself so many times the last few days; he wouldn't be forgetting this name again. He took two steps forward and suddenly everything Anathema had enlightened him of flooded his mind like drowning. _Supermodel_ Anthony Crowley. The man from the covers. And the adverts. And appearing in celebrity gossip for something as simple as making himself welcome at Aziraphale's morning meal. 

Well it was what it was, and Supermodel Anthony Crowley was approaching him – when had Aziraphale stopped moving? – with a somewhat defeated expression and two children trailing him this visit. Aziraphale studied his face. Mr. Crowley appeared tired and subdued. None of the purposeful, languid teasing from their first two encounters. Perhaps I'd been seeing what I wanted, Aziraphale thought, but- 

“Something's upset you,” Aziraphale blurted, and then he reared back slightly and widened his eyes with a muffled, “Ooops.” Because no. He didn't know the man well enough to comment. How often people had just assumed they knew him due to his fame? 

“Aziraphale,” Mr. Crowley said in greeting. The tone of his voice mirrored the trace slumping of his shoulders and sluggish walk, again, much different than the Anthony Crowley he'd previously met. The child he'd really only observed sleeping before was looking around the shop again in curiosity. The older child scuffed his trainers across the ground, his face buried in his phone. As if he could sense Aziraphale's gaze, he glanced up and returned the look. Aziraphale felt quite scrutinized by the young boy. 

“I've got your books.” Flustered now, Aziraphale returned behind his counter and pulled the paper-wrapped bundle from a shelf. “Both the sequel, in fantastic condition, I must say, and a second copy of _Farmer For a Day_ as requested.” He untied the twine binding the package and slipped the paper off. He held both up for approval. 

The younger child ran the rest of the way across the shop, squealing and laughing, his curly blond hair bouncing. “Ducks. Ducks, Daddy, Duck book!” he chanted. The child's dreary expression flip-flopped and was now the picture of joyousness.

“Ducks,” Anthony Crowley agreed and nodded to Aziraphale. “You have no idea what an angel you are for finding these. Adam's been – well – look at him,” he said. The first evidence of a smile twitched up the corners of his lips. “Lucifer and I split custody 50/50, but the book's been at his house this entire time.”

Aziraphale couldn't disguise his fascination while watching Adam take the books from his hand and hug them to his chest. “Two duck book!” he said. He regarded Aziraphale very seriously. “Daddy will wead dem at bedtime!” He grinned once more and ran toward the older child, holding the books and calling an excited, “Look!” to the boy. 

Aziraphale shook his head softly and allowed himself a moment of pride. Children that were introduced to books regularly became adults who might see worth in reading. He flicked his eyes back over to the- to _the supermodel_ , he remembered again. He felt his cheeks flush with warmth. 

“He's had a rough day. We've all had one,” Anthony Crowley said softly. His head was turned toward Aziraphale and he'd taken several steps closer while Aziraphale was watching Adam. 

“Mr. Crowley, I'm sorry to presume to-”

“Crowley.” 

“Er. What?”

“Call me Crowley.” He moved closer to the counter Aziraphale remained frozen behind. Crowley paused to watch the children. Adam had somehow convinced the older child to read him the duck book. The older child's eyes cut back over to meet Aziraphale's again and returned to the picture book. 

Aziraphale glanced back at the side of Crowley's head as he continued to watch the children. The waning light spilling through the oculus of the bookshop made the hair hanging loosely about his shoulders appear a satiny dark auburn. 

“Crowley, then,” Aziraphale repeated. He spoke low, afraid to break the delicate thing that'd settled upon them like muted fog. Crowley's somber mood. Adam's innocent joy. The unnamed child's intense regard. It was all a little overwhelming. He bundled the twine still in his hands into a messy ball. 

“There's a story behind it. It's out there somewhere, made the rounds.” Crowley waved a hand loosely at 'rounds' and turned back to meet Aziraphale's eyes, his own still hidden by mirrored sunglasses even in the early evening. His head tilted, and he leaned his hip casually at the counter top. Aziraphale felt helplessly drawn in by his candor. “Crowley's the name I chose when leaving foster care, ignored my Personal Advisor and Pathway Plan once I could. I didn't choose Anthony. And I don't actually care about my birthmom's legacy since she clearly thought overdosing while eight months up the duff were great parenting choices. Crowley.” 

That was A Lot. And much too fast. Aziraphale anxiously fiddled with the twine in his palm to thread around his fingers. 

How did one respond to a voluntary dump of delicate personal information from someone you barely knew? Or maybe it was a celebrity thing? Take control of the narrative before it takes you? Sorrow began to blend with his discomfort at how invasive the world must be for Crowley. How proactive he must need to be when meeting new people. Aziraphale realized he'd completely bound his hand with his anxious fidgeting and began picking at the twine. 

“I know who you are now,” Aziraphale finally said. His face continued to heat. He looked down when Crowley's smile flickered back from it's downturn. “I didn't realize you were- you- until a friend pointed out a tabloid photo of us at Sweet Treat.”

Crowley faced him and gripped the edges of the counter top. “They're vultures. I deserve it because I put myself out there. But they just do it no matter who I'm with. I hope it didn't give you trouble.”

Anxious lines appeared on his forehead again above his sunglasses. Crowley lifted one hand to brush a lock of wavy hair behind his ear, revealing the agitated, tight clench of his graceful jawline. Aziraphale experienced a strong compulsion to soothe him, to cradle his cheek. He wanted to protect him from distress. He nearly followed through and clutched the thick ledger on the counter so he wouldn't.

His belly pressed into the counter edge when he looked upward. Good heavens, the man was tall in those heels. Aziraphale only vaguely registered them when Crowley'd first walked in. They made an impact now on him, enhancing his and Crowley's difference in height. “Oh no!” he reassured. “No problems. I had no idea.” 

“I try to keep the kids away from the paps when I can. Adam's just turned three. Warlock's ten. But I can't control every social media account.”

“I'm sure you're a lovely father,” Aziraphale couldn't help but say. Just in the brief time he'd seen Crowley with Adam, Aziraphale could see he adored the boy. He was surely the same for the older child. It occurred to him this might be a side to Crowley he often couldn't share. 

Crowley's chin dipped, then he reached to remove his sunglasses from his face and slide them into an inside pocket of his very expensive looking and well-cut suit. His smile warmed and his newly bared eyes went soft. “I try and put the boys first. And Lucifer does for the most part too. We had a disagreement today over their exposure. It's hard finding the line.” 

Aziraphale met his eyes and studied their pale amber. His neck was craned upward and Crowley curled further inward. The counter became an abrupt, necessary boundary between them.

“I imagine it must be difficult,” he said, voice hushed. He went still under Crowley's attention. His breath whooshed loudly in his ears. 

“I manage.” Crowley slipped into a low drawl. 

A surging, charged atmosphere swelled between them. Aziraphale couldn't look away and failed to find his tongue. Instead, he contemplated the curve of Crowley's eyebrow, the strong slant of his nose, the dip of shadow beneath his lower lip. 

“What do I owe you?” Crowley murmured into the silence. He'd gone still as well, his own gaze heavy and searching. 

“Seventy-five,” Aziraphale said, breathless. His caught himself and nervously cleared his throat. “Sorry, the follow-up picture book was more costly.” Thankfully, his brain kick-started. “Cash or card, but I've no chip and PIN, I run it manually.”

Crowley stepped back and while watching Aziraphale intently, slid a hand into a pocket on his suit for a wallet. Aziraphale saw the movement from a reflection on his glasses lenses but could do nothing other than keep his eyes locked to Crowley's. He felt strange inside, the odd prickle when a foot fell asleep but settled throughout his chest and lower. 

Their connected stare broke when Crowley glanced down at his wallet to slide out a card. Aziraphale suddenly felt doused in cold water. Before he could shake off his confusing reactions, Crowley handed the card over. The moment Aziraphale reached for it, Crowley's thumb shifted to cover his own and brushed a lingering, soft stroke over Aziraphale's skin as he drew it away. 

There was no mistaking it.

Aziraphale might have been out of practice, but he recognized a very skilled, very suave pass. 

Aziraphale was decidedly _not skilled_. He froze with the AE black card pinched between his finger and thumb. Stared at the card. Absently fumbled for his ledger book with his other hand. Then he looked up to meet Crowley's eyes again, verifying he hadn't just hallucinated the entire thing. 

Crowley's entire demeanor shifted from when he'd entered the shop. He'd straightened from his lean against the counter. With his hip cocked and his hands tucked back into the pockets of his suit trousers, he was nearly a full head-and-a-half taller than Aziraphale. His chin tilted downward and his waves of ginger hair were swept back behind his ears. The more despondent Crowley from earlier was gone, leaving this confident man in his place with an expression of anticipation and electric eyes that evoked golden-yellow leaves of autumn. 

_Supermodel_ , Aziraphale reminded himself. But. _Leo for singles, you're being tested, be optimistic_. He shook his daze away and completed the transaction, still sneaking glances. Then, with his heart wildly thumping in his chest, and his brain screaming at him to quit being an idiot, he handed back the card and mirrored the same slip of thumb move on Crowley. 

This time, Crowley's knowing smile expanded into a lecherous smirk. Message acknowledged. 

_SUPERMODEL_ , Aziraphale's battered mind wailed like an air raid siren. HES TOO MUCH FOR SOMEONE LIKE YOU!

“Pop! Oi, Pop! When you're done standing there makin' googly eyes, can we go to that fried chicken place?” 

Aziraphale startled. He dropped his hands to the counter. He'd _forgotten about the children._ Oh God. He'd become one of _those people_ utterly blinkered by a pretty face and subtle touch. Or his mind slipped with his usual failure of short-term memory. What a complete moron he was. This man had _children_. This was insane. 

“Yeah, kid,” Crowley was saying, completely unflustered while Aziraphale's insides tied themselves in knots. Crowley had reached to rest a hand upon the boy's shoulder and turned to the younger boy. “Still want chicken nuggets, Stardust?” he asked; the younger child nodded. Crowley glanced over at Aziraphale and this time, he'd lost the flirty smile. In it's place, and much more dangerous, in Aziraphale's opinion, Crowley's entire bearing revealed an honest and pure, almost bashful pride in his family. 

Aziraphale could only swallow, his throat dry of words. 

“This is Mr. Aziraphale Fell, and this is his bookshop. It's where your father and I came for his book and Adam got his first one.” Then he turned a devastating grin and those bright, open eyes back onto Aziraphale. “My boys, Warlock and Adam, complete terrors, they are,” he added and then _winked_.

Aziraphale exhaled very _very_ slowly. Oh God Oh God Oh God. This was Anthony Crowley, regular dad, everyday customer, who'd thrown an old-school move minutes ago at Aziraphale to test for interest or homophobia. And Aziraphale was going to burn into a pile of ashes. 

“Ducks dwive the twactor!” Adam said to Aziraphale, bringing him back into the moment. 

Aziraphale got hold of himself and managed a kind smile for both children. “Pleased to meet you!” He folded his hands behind his back to disguise their nervous twisting and met the younger child's eyes in particular. “I'm so happy you're enjoying that book! It's such a sweet story, old and out of print, so do be careful,” he couldn't resist adding. 

“I like ducks 'n biwds,” Adam said to him very seriously. 

“Let's all agree not to tell him what's in his chicken nuggets!” Warlock said, giggling. He leaned against Crowley's side but included Aziraphale in his playfulness. 

“When he's able to read on his own, he'll soon learn!” Aziraphale glanced between the boys and Crowley. Crowley was watching him avidly. 

“Books are boring,” Warlock said suddenly. He narrowed his eyes at Aziraphale in challenge, then cocked his head with his arms folded across his chest. 

“Warlock!” Crowley appeared startled with a flush of embarrassment pinking high on his cheeks when Aziraphale flicked his eyes back over at Crowley's blurted admonishment. 

But whatever Warlock's reasoning, be it an instinctive, protective thwarting from sensing Aziraphale's interest in his father or something else, Aziraphale had faced this gauntlet often from older children and teens. He held a finger up to Crowley to hush his sputtering and met Warlock's stare head on, considering his words. “Which books?”

Warlock seemed surprised over the question. “The ones I read with my tutor,” he answered. His eyes lost some of their defiance. 

“What about the ones you haven't read?”

“I donno.” Now he sounded genuinely puzzled. “How 'm I s'possed to know if I didn't read them?”

No matter how Aziraphale felt before, this was confident ground. “So you don't know _for sure_ if they're all boring, do you?”

“I guess not.” Warlock glanced down at his brother and back up at his father's watchfulness before returning his gaze to meet Aziraphale's. 

Aziraphale gentled his voice. All of them save Adam were on uncertain ground with this jarring and increasingly confusing attraction brewing between he and Crowley. “Perhaps give them another try, my boy. Your brain might be built to listen to the story rather than read it. I've learned much about how how our minds work over the last decade. I deal with older books, but there are fabulous- what are they called- books on tape?”

“Audio books,” Crowley supplied in a quiet voice. “They're called audio books now.” He was watching Aziraphale with the oddest expression. Then he faced the boys. “Both of you zip your coats.” He slid his sunglasses back on and gathered the two books from Adam to hold close to his chest, fending off Aziraphale's offer to rewrap them with, “He'll just want 'em in the car anyhow.” 

Aziraphale was overcome by an urge to walk them to the door. He circled the counter. “Thank all three of you for visiting my shop. I hope you'll stop by again!”

“An invitation to return, Aziraphale?” Crowley said without looking as Aziraphale accompanied them. “Don't I feel special now to rate such a thing.” 

“Yes. Well-” Walking next to an already taller man in stilettos was an experience for Aziraphale and preoccupied his brain. “How tall are you?” he blurted aloud before wincing. The crash had only worsened his impulsive words and Crowley's height was doing _things_ to him that scrambled his thoughts. 

Crowley just hummed an inquiring noise as he took hold of Adam's hand. “A hair shorter than six-four. Taller in these,” he said. He paused to point one foot bearing a bright red stiletto and rolled his ankle in exhibition. “'Supposedly too tall for the runway, but here I am.” 

“You are here. Yes,” Aziraphale murmured while staring in fascination. He hoped it went unheard. 

“So that number you phoned earlier. It's my personal private.”

Aziraphale blinked at this change in subject and the uncertainty he detected in Crowley's voice. He tipped his chin upward. “Yes?” 

“I. Er.” Crowley slowed again and drummed his fingers over the picture books. He swung his head toward Warlock, who waited impatiently at the doorway. “What I'm saying is if you'd like to talk. Or go out and grab coffee?” He turned back to Aziraphale with eyes obscured now by sunglasses, then he immediately went back to facing his son. He started walking again, slow, pulling a distracted Adam along. 

Aziraphale opened his mouth. Shut it. Opened it again, and then processed that Crowley's sharp cheekbones had gone flush with color in the split second he'd faced Aziraphale. 

“Oh.” he said, a complete flustered mess. “OH. Yes. Yes, of course. That would be lovely.” 

“Lovely, he says,” Crowley said from the doorway and finally looked back at him, watching. “Good. So. I'm gonna take a selfie in front of your store for your shop, then we'll get out of your hair.”

“Right.” Aziraphale had little idea what that meant and why it was for his shop, but he nodded anyhow and watched the door until it shut, still feeling stunned. 

*

The following morning, Aziraphale had buttoned his coat, chosen a hat from his options, and intended a quick visit to the bakery before officially opening. He stepped out. 

Dozens of people were queued around his door, their breath puffing white in the crisp air. Aziraphale paused, concerned. 

“Hey, he's opening!” 

Oh no. That was not- “Not quite yet,” he said, but people began to push past him into the shop. He stood there, unusually passive in his shock. 

“What on Earth?” he whispered to himself. People were posing for photographs near the outdoor architecture of his building. And still walking in. He spun and re-entered his shop. 

All sorts of people now were doing the same indoors, taking photos of themselves on their mobile phones, making faces, _touching books_. Aziraphale wandered around his shop growing increasingly alarmed. 

“Hey man, this place yours?” an older teen asked, grinning at him. “Can't believe I've never been in here before. The aesthetic alone!” 

“I. Oh.” Aziraphale said faintly. 

He became swarmed by people asking questions. About his shop. About the architecture. About actual books and good heavens, some wanted him to ring them out for their selections.

“Why?” he began, and then nearly jumped when someone near the rear counter yelled out for service. 

There were dozens in his shop! Touching things and digging through precariously stacked books. Someone knocked a pile over, and that finally shook Aziraphale into motion. 

“Say there!” he called out to a young man reclining on a shelf he'd removed the books from and posing for a photo, “Remove yourself this instant!” Aziraphale hustled quick as he could around the crowd to someone who was standing on a pile of _books_ to reach something off a top shelf. “You really need protective gloves to handle that, hey!” he called out again. His hands began to shake and his heart thumped frantically. 

“What is happening!” he finally shouted out to no one, but he was nearly panting at this point, wild eyed and feeling dizzy with it all. He covered his face with his hands to block it out. Too much for his head, his blasted After Crash head. 

“You're gorgeous shop is famous,” a woman said, clearly taking pity. “You'll get a nice bump in business from it.”

Aziraphale lifted his head and readjusted his smeared glasses. He pulled them off when he tried to focus on what the woman was saying.

“Oh my god, yes, what was he like?”said another person, a teen girl it seemed this time. She was watching Aziraphale impatiently and hopping on her toes in excitement. 

“What?” Aziraphale's eyes darted around his crowded store, more than he'd ever seen inside. People were riffling though books and a collection of antique maps. They were taking photos of themselves with the woodwork and climbing onto his balcony. They were cooing over the décor and holding their phones and making recordings. 

“Please,” he said to the two women standing near. “I'm uncertain on what's caused all this...these...” he searched for a word and came up empty, “people,” he finished bitterly. 

“Oh sweetheart,” the older woman consoled. “I tend bar a street over. You're probably not used to this are you.” 

“No!” He turned to someone calling in irritated tones for assistance. “You just hold your patience, young man! It's only me here!” He looked back at the woman, feeling desperate. “Not at all. What's happening?”

The younger girl thrust her phone in his face. He jerked back and focused. There was a picture of Crowley appearing just as slick as he had yesterday in front of Aziraphale's bookstore with the children's books. The caption read, _'Thinking about my boys cuddled in bed, listening to me read these classic children's books I picked up at A. Z. Fell's.'_

“Crowley!” he said, suddenly feeling perplexingly cold and hot at the same instant. 

Another woman standing nearby inserted herself in their conversation and gushed, “You had the Demon in this shop. I'm so jealous!”

“What was he like?” the woman who'd shown him the photo asked. “Is he as hot in person as he is in that one Tom Ford cologne ad?”

“You're so lucky!” another said. “He put this up on twitter and instagram! Everyone will wanna come in!” 

Aziraphale clasped his hands together and glanced around his shop again in despair. _Supermodel_ the goading voice in his head sang out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This existed as two chapters in the first draft we blended into one. when I wrote the last bit where Aziraphale's shop gets swarmed, we were eeking closer to black friday at work. I thought it would be funny. Now people are hitting stores like crazy again, and it's not so funny. 
> 
> I have no clue what my posting schedule will be upcoming. I work in retail at a larger store for the area. People are acting bonkers at my job because of covid-19. I'm actually starting to be scared someone will shoot another person in the store over a pack of clorox wipes!


	9. Scales

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the kind words and concern for my adventures in working retail during all the fear going around! And best wishes to anyone reading this on the frontlines, in heath care, retail, teaching! I am trying to keep my head on straight and not panic because I have asthma and tend to get bronchitis at this time of year as it is!

*

_Libra- Relationships will be more of a priority this week as the sun moves into dynamic Aries. Its presence here could encourage you to clear up any issues that may be preventing you from getting along with someone._

_The coming four weeks are also excellent for moving in new circles and enhancing your social life in general. Are you eager to improve your current partnership? This is the time to do so._

_Where romance is concerned, the movement of practical Saturn into Aquarius and your romance zone can mean you’ll take romantic involvements more seriously. While you might relish lighthearted dates, the idea of committing could be something you give a lot of thought to as well._  
*

Friday, Crowley was up and already in a portable tent on site for styling well before dawn for a still shoot on the Thames. Lucifer had collected the boys after dinner the evening prior and Crowley'd found himself out of sorts in the quiet of his flat. He'd gone onto _Stargazer's Pub_ as Ophiuchus. Ranted on another user's asinine opinion on premier telescope eyepieces. Picked up then put down the astrophysics book from Aziraphale's shop. Returned online.

He wasn't too proud to admit he was lonely. 

Since his amicable split from Lucifer he'd enjoyed his share of flings, but he never brought anyone home. Rather than comfortable silence, it just felt empty. 

And this morning wasn't looking any better. A chilly breeze slipped through a loosely sealed slit in one of the corners of the temporary structure. In spite of the heater chugging away, the uncomfortable dampness only added to his disenchantment over this entire account. He stumbled in, groggy, and Hastur began immediately with intricate braidwork. Someone from Madame Tracy's team was hard at work with costuming makeup along his abdomen; Tracy herself was smart enough to sleep in. Crowley fought dozing off. The frequent yanking on his hair kept him awake. 

“Temp now?” Crowley asked muzzily. The woman applying his costuming makeup wouldn't start with his face until his hair was finished. Taking advantage of this, he tore open a Celestial Bodies branded stick of rock sweet he'd stuffed in the pocket of his robe from some press event. 

“It's eight fecking degrees out there,” Hastur grumbled. “Who's god damn idea wassit anyhow?” 

From the corner of the temporary structure where Michael finalized details with the photographer, she said, “Not ours.” 

Gabriel paced in a dizzying circle around the tent. Crowley knew he'd be on the edge. It was Crowley's last shoot with this client under his current contract with them. He'd opted not to extend his working relationship. Gabriel would want to keep L'Occulte fragrance in house rather than have them seek out another modeling agency. Crowley was growing tired of their increasingly elaborate themes and insistence on outdoor shoots anyhow.

Today, he'd be a merman or aquatic nymph or some rubbish, with painted scales upon his exposed arms and chest but a thankfully insulating wetsuit bottom. There'd be some protection on the boat for the photographer's equipment and some comforts for warmth, but he'd still be half naked on the damn Thames in early February.

He sucked on the end of the mint flavored sweet and took a moment to stretch his legs and arms outward. His muscles were too tight. Yikes, he thought. Maybe he should get back into yoga. 

“Will you keep still!” Hastur sniped from behind his head. Crowley grunted in pain at his pulled hair and flashed an apologetic look at the makeup woman who'd been painting scales on his bare chest. 

“I'm nearly there, but don't touch it for about five min, 'kay Mr. Crowley?” she said. 

Gabriel's prowling brought him closer. He nodded in approval at the costuming paintwork. Crowley reluctantly grew more curious on how it would appear in the final photographs. 

“Nice, Heather.” Gabriel then pinned Crowley with his false cheerfulness. “See this Crowley? A dedicated woman fulfilling their duty to Celestial to their best ability.”

Crowley's shoulders involuntarily scrunched up, his stomach going acid, but he was able to keep his head still for Hastur. His teeth clacked on the sweet when he fidgeted nervously with his tongue. Gabriel never said complimentary shit like that out of pure kindness. 

“Now you.” Gabriel's voice took on a displeased tone. His eyebrows arched and he looked at Crowley disappointed but tolerant, as if he were a wayward beloved dog that'd peed on the carpet. “You're _a demon_ to work with, you realize, Crowley,” Gabriel said with a knowing tilt to his head as if including Crowley in on his joke over Crowley's nickname with the public. He laughed, a cartoonish thing. 

“I know, I know, controlled chaos comes with the 'bad-boy' territory, but you make managing your image very difficult.” Gabriel said the last with ill-humor and stepped closer. Crowley glared at him with icy frustration. “You need to toe-the-line here and focus your antics outward. But what's happening?” he asked with a sharp upturn in his voice at the end of his speech. 

“I donno, Gabriel. What's happening,” Crowley said, punctuated by an annoyed sigh. It was four fucking am, everyone was exhausted and grouchy. Everyone but his manager, who'd probably already jogged for an hour and then built a paperclip chain for fun while waiting for everyone to crawl in half-asleep. 

“Explain this.” Gabriel produced a tablet from nowhere. The image was the selfie Crowley had posted to Twitter and Instagram of himself in front of Aziraphale's shop. Crowley preened, a sly half-smile around the minty rock stick. He looked _good_. Giddy from the promise of reciprocal interest. Hair tousled, sunglasses catching the light just so, a peek of collarbone from black silk, his tie loosened, a rakish grin. What was Gabriel's problem? 

Gabriel handed the tablet to Michael, who silently appeared at his side. “How does this feed into your image Crowley?” He shook his head. “You're sabotaging all my hard work!” 

Crowley jerked forward in the chair, his hair pulling beneath Hastur's fingers. Hastur let go with a “What the hell, Crowley!” and flung his comb into the air with his usual drama. 

“Take five,” Crowley snarled uncharitably at both Hastur and Tracy's makeup assistant standing nearby. He winced; it wasn't their fault he was upset. Head free now, he turned to Gabriel. “I bought books for my kids. Gave the shop a social media boost. I look fabulous. What more do you need?”

“I'll step out to the production tent,” Michael assured Gabriel before flicking her eyes at Crowley. She escorted the photographer out the flap. 

Gabriel leaned over Crowley in the chair and propped one palm on the arm. Even seated, Crowley was still nearly at his eye-level. “Anthony Crowley, supermodel, second most requested model in the long history of our agency after Lucifer DeVil. Requested for the _image_ the designer and client want to bring to their line.” 

“Yes?” Crowley hissed. Gabriel leaned uncomfortably close. “Anthony Crowley doesn't read. He gets fucked over the table holding the books. The fantasy of Anthony Crowley isn't a father-”

“But I _am_ a father,” he said, truly angry now. “I'm a good father.” He shoved Gabriel back to get up from the chair, knocking the styling tools still in his lap onto the floor. 

To his feeble credit, Gabriel took the hint. He stepped back to give Crowley room, but filled that space with words. He held his hands in a placating gesture and said, softer now, in a disturbing attempt at soothing, “You're right, I often forget you have a subset of fans who want glimpses of softness in the naughty Demon, doting on his son.” He smiled as if he'd solved the problem. 

“Sons,” Crowley corrected. Gabriel knew he'd adopted Warlock legally. He was even there for it as Lucifer's best friend. Crowley would be damned if Gabriel dismissed it. 

“One son,” Gabriel said. “Two is too...familial for your image.” 

“Oh, and two is fine for Lucifer,” Crowley snarked. 

“Lucifer DeVil's image _is_ the debonair family man, and I have no hand in his image these days.” Crowley detected the faintest trace of disgruntlement beneath Gabriel's words and wondered over it. 

Gabriel folded his arms across his chest but thankfully didn't approach Crowley again. Crowley sat back into the chair and crunched anxiously on the rock sweet. 

Gabriel wasn't done. He stared at Crowley keenly. “Lucifer picked up his modeling career after a successful stint as a child actor. He was a household name by nineteen. Married to supermodel Milton Donne for scandalously torrid affair. Married to Oscar winning actress Lilith Jardin for most of a decade after that. He's established and transitioned into his thirties where most age out of the business. He's at the _peak_ of his success at nearly forty. When did you first hit the runway? Nearly twenty?”

“Seventeen,” Crowley said grudgingly. “'S not like you weren't there,” he added. Gabriel had been the one to scout him while he posed for art courses for extra money at Uni. 

“A tender seventeen,” Gabriel drew out. “And you hit big right around the time you started dating Lucifer.” 

“Twenty.” Crowley went to cross his own arms protectively but recalled the elaborate paint-work at the last second. He gripped the chair arms, disheartened at the direction this was going. 

Gabriel took a step forward. “Crowley, Crowley, Crowley,” he said low. “A little secret between you and me. I know you think hitching your chariot to Lucifer rocketed you to fame, but you would've gotten there on your own. I love the guy,” he laughed, sounding oddly manic, “best man at all three of his weddings, as you well know. But he doesn't get what people want.”

He took a step closer. “ _I_ know what people want. I helped mold you into what people wanted.” 

“Heh.” Crowley clamped his lips down onto the sweet still sticking out of his mouth a good few centimeters. He slid his eyes away from Gabriel over to the fastened tent opening and strained to hear the progress going on outside. Hadn't it been five minutes?

Gabriel had stepped closer to the prep chair, his favorite spot to crowd and intimidate Crowley, it seemed. His hips nearly touched Crowley's knees as he leaned forward, close enough so his breath hit Crowley's face. His voice was low, silky, and made Crowley shiver with discomfort. “They want a sexy, wet-dream badboy to scoop them from their dreary lives with a tempting smile. They want healthy and slender and not too bright, naughty and just edging on pornographic. The whore with a heart of gold. And the designers want a body that looks just as good in a gown and heels as it does in a suit, and a fierceness on the runway. A glorious tool for their creation.” 

“Glorious tool,” Crowley mumbled gloomily around the rock stick. The two years remaining on his C.B. contract loomed before him, heavy. 

“So cool it with the cutesy photos, mkay?” Gabriel said much brighter as he stepped back. “Think provocative, think titillating in your personal social media posts, or I'll manage those for you on top of everything else.” His creepy smile returned just as Michael, Hastur, the photographer, and Heather the make-up assistant re-entered the tent. “It's admirable you keep trying, Crowley, but you're just not that smart,” Gabriel finished as the stylist team retook their places. Michael shot him an intense stare Crowley read as concern before she engaged the photographer again. 

Crowley said nothing. Heather bit her lip as she prepped her tray to start on his face. Hastur was curiously silent. 

“And quit eating these,” Gabriel said much too loud for the low murmuring within the tent. “They're for the fans, not for those of us watching our figures,” he said as he pulled the stick of rock right from Crowley's mouth. “Ew, empty calories.” 

* 

The shoot went by in a disoriented blur. Crowley worked on autopilot and apparently summoned up enough energy to pull it off, but it helped that no one wanted to be on a boat upon the Thames at the asscrack of dawn to shill another water themed cologne. He was ready to kiss the feet of the assistant who called out periodically to pause and hand over a heated blanket. 

“Who the fuck wants to buy shit that makes you think of the scent of river fish?” he grumbled, shivering. 

“Who booked this at the ass-end of winter, is more the question,” the assistant said, most likely meant to be beneath their breath, though Crowley heard and smothered a chuckle. 

“It wasn't someone who's got experience getting sprayed down with water while it's lucky to be ten Cees on a good day outside on the god forsaken river, that's for sure!” 

“Can't help you there. An' I'm still not used to Celsius. I'm one of the set designers. Beatrice? They/them pronouns please?” 

“They call you Beelzebub, right? Because of that hellset from last year. Why're you stuck handing me heated blankets?” 

“Ah,” they tapped the side of their temple. “Because now Gabriel, the jackass, is freezing his nuts off on a boat while I'm holding a toasty warmer to heat blankets for you and the photog crew.” 

“Smart,” he said, cheered a bit from his funk. 

“Time!” Beatrice called out and stole Crowley's blanket away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 9 and 10 ended up short chapters I considered joining but chose not to in the end because the emotions are so different. 
> 
> sticks of rock candy are one of my favorite things and hard to find my me. Especially with actual words/locations printed on them. I have some Brighton stick of rock a friend brought back I wouldn't eat just so I could have it. There's a world market about an hour and a half away I sometimes pick it up in. Cracker Barrel has a stick candy but it's more fruity and like a long lollypop. I eat those too. 
> 
> Horoscope for Crowley/Libra from horoscope . com 's weekly scope.
> 
> Crowley and Lucifer are about a dozen years apart in age, which means Lucifer hit on a twenty year old Crowley when he was around 32ish. If this squicks you out or makes you uncomfortable, it was kind of intentional in this case. This particular relationship was meant to be legal but a little bit predatory in reflection of the real relationships we see in the celebrity world.  
>  I personally believe that legal adults shouldn't police safe and sane relationships with other legal adults. Crowley, as a newly rising model in his twenties without any family who'd dropped out of university to model when discovered by Gabriel Celestial and Lucifer, a household name and a recently divorced father who was childhood friends with Gabriel were not really a healthy relationship.


	10. Knitwear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I am glad I ended up not combining nine and ten because I needed a lot of italics html in ten.
> 
> I hope everyone is hanging in there in these unusual times. My area is leaning toward lockdown, but my grocery store is considered essential. I only work part of my hours with people. The rest is with bakery ovens. It's still like the day before Thanksgiving every day though. I wish people would stop hoarding. We are not going anywhere.

*

_Aries for love- When we believe we have no reason to dispute what we see, then we're happy to accept what our eyes tell us. Your emotional world could benefit from effort on your part to look again at what you have been inclined to take at face value. A second look could reveal something that can shed new and helpful light in some way._

*

Much warmer and back indoors at Celestial, Crowley snuggled into knitwear he'd never wear in public. He slurped down his second cup of coffee in minutes for the pure heat of it and dug out his personal mobile. One text was from Warlock, a photo of some Lego monstrosity. He sent back a quick selfie with a cheesy thumbs up. 

Lucifer was the second, a brief: _'I heard from M over how Gabe is wanking his authority all over you. I'll have a word.'_

He sighed and closed out the app. His ex's penchant to still micro-manage him as he had during their relationship as if he were incompetent annoyed in a completely different way. Well. Crowley was the idiot who'd gone starry-eyed under all the doting and married a celebrity over a decade older. He became a husband and stepdad at twenty-two. Picturing the same fate for Adam or Warlock curdled everything in his stomach. 

Right before he shut his phone down, he caught the symbol indicating a voicemail. No one left him a voicemail on his personal phone; they texted if he couldn't answer. His heart fluttered in his chest a little stupidly when he recognized the number and played it. 

_'Oh dear. I'm not fond of these things, I spoke too early. Ah. Crowley. Why is it everyone calls you the demon? Nevermind that. I must know what you've done that's brought oodles of people to my shop the last few days. It's intolerable. They're taking photographs of themselves at the front and indoors. And attempting to purchase things they don't have the knowledge to care for. It just will not do. Might you ring me at your convenience? This is Aziraphale Fell, from the bookshop. Thank you.'_

Crowley could feel his cheeks stretch with how ridiculously he was grinning. He nodded at Michael, who motioned at his empty coffee mug and took it to refill once more. Some of his humor faded. He genuinely hadn't thought it'd be an issue. But Aziraphale _had_ sounded utterly frazzled. 

He dialed Aziraphale's number with anticipation and in hopes of soothing his ruffled feathers. 

_“I'm sorry but we're very much closed,”_ Aziraphale's frustrated voice answered. 

“Why're ya answering the phone then?” Crowley asked with obvious mirth. His day had potential to improve considerably. “What if I were a customer who'd wanted _The Stranger_? You'd have to talk to me now because you picked up.” 

_“Because one should...it's important that...bugger this all, is this you, Crowley?”_

“You know, most people love it when I name drop their business and send traffic their way,” he reasoned, unable to resist the temptation of poking at him. 

_“I am not 'most people',”_ Aziraphale said, and he sounded so offended to be classified with these hypothetical others that Crowley could only laugh deep in his chest. 

He leaned his head back in the dressing room's armchair, finally beginning to feel warm and comfortable. Imagining Aziraphale's pretty blue eyes peering at him in exasperation though his thick glasses lenses make him relent. “Can't have my bookshop angel all out of sorts. Let me make it up to you. Dinner?” he suggested. He pulled at a loose yarn on the jumper and yanked it out with satisfaction in the hole it created. 

_“Er. What?”_

“I'm offering to take you out, on me.” 

The line went silent. Crowley went jittery with more nerves than he thought capable for a something he'd asked dozens of others before. 

_“I suppose.”_

“We'll go somewhere that'll keep the paparazzi away.” Crowley already began checking off venues in his mind. There were a good handful... “Are you free tomorrow night?”

 _“I am. But Crowley, you need to be more aware of the- of the_ influence _you have on others!”_

Crowley covered the mic to disguise his own snort of frustration. He was unfortunately well aware of his clout. His rapid climb to fame included enough misteps requiring guidance from Lucifer, Uriel, and a handful of other agency models at the time to whom he'd be forever grateful. 

There was no way a a shy, quiet bookshop owner would understand what it was like to wield power like that over others, of course. How it felt to impact people's everyday decisions as they went about their lives. No way for Aziraphale to know how much weight a suggestion from Crowley or Lucifer or any number of celebrities might hold in an anonymous person's worldview. Right?

“I'll make a scene somewhere else,” Crowley promised before the silence between them stretched too long. “They'll leave you alone eventually.” He smiled to himself and sought to reassure Aziraphale. “You have any competitors I can send droves to?” He paused when he heard the huff of frustration over the line. “A rival?” he added, dragging the word out and trying not to laugh at Aziraphale's scolding-

 _“-Crowley!”_

Crowley snickered into the phone, pleased. He caught Michael watching him at the doorway with his refilled coffee and waved her in, nodding a thanks. “Commiserate with me, Aziraphale,” he said. He pulled the warm cup close to his chin. “I've been freezing my fingers and toes and chest hair off while half dressed on the Thames all morning.”

 _“But it's just gone into February!”_ Aziraphale said, sounding indignant on Crowley's behalf. 

He noticed Michael still watching him and held out a hand to her, snapping his fingers and pointing at a second blanket folded on the table in his private room. She rolled her eyes but fetched it for him before stepping back out. “Oh the things we models do to make the world easier on your eyes,” he said with an exaggerated sigh as he pretended to angle for sympathy. 

_”Are you always this impossible?”_

Crowley could hear the tenderness in Aziraphale's words bleed though the phoneline though and took this as a positive sign.

“Twice so on weekends.” 

There was a relaxed silence, then Aziraphale's voice went soft. _”I do hope you're keeping warm now. You barely had an appropriate coat on last I saw you."_

That was interesting. Crowley pressed the phone close to his cheek so he could pitch his voice to a sultry murmur. “Oh little book angel, were you paying close attention to what I wearing the other day?” 

Aziraphale sputtered some fragmented words on his end, but before Crowley could picture his flustered expression, Aziraphale clearly recovered and said, “I'm still cross with you, you incorrigible flirt.”

Strangely, Crowley found this even more appealing. “Ask me what I'm wearing now,” he said gleefully and without airs. He felt true to himself for the first time that day. 

_“I don't believe this,”_ Aziraphale fussed beneath his breath thought still audible over the line. Then louder, and with much dignity in his voice, he asked, _“What are you wearing?”_

“A Fair Isle knit jumper only a bookshop owner could love and joggers that'll never see the outside of this room. Does this satisfy you?” Crowley let his eyes drift shut, warm, drowsy, and content in the sound of Aziraphale's little hums of approval.

 _“As long as you're comfortable. They should have _rules_ or some such for you, honestly. You could catch cold standing outdoors all wet and... naked and...wet.”_ He went quiet. Crowley could just make out his soft breathing over the line. He'd heard a mixture of simmering lust and worry for his well being in Aziraphale's words. It was rather touching. 

“'M fine, Aziraphale. Part of the job. You'd be surprised how often I'll nix things I don't really want to do.”

_”If you say so, my dear. I will see you Saturday. And do encourage your fans to shop elsewhere for their books? Take Care, Crowley.”_

“It's a date,” he slipped in at the end of the call. Once he shoved some of the blanket aside, he placed his partially full coffee mug on the nearby table. He held his phone out at arm-length and studied himself in selfie-mode. The dampness combined with hair product made his braids appear stiff and glossy. He wondered how his bright ginger would look in the photographs outdoors against the grays, greens and steel blues of the river and blurred surrounding cityscape. 

Hastur was a jackass, but he was a genius with Crowley's hair no matter the style or cut he'd had over the years. Heather's makeup work was mostly wiped clean, but the effect had been stunning. Crowley was growing excited to see how L'Occulte Fragrance's merman from the sea idea would appear thanks to their work. 

In fact, while his tentative partnership with C.B. alum Uriel Asante was still in talks and kept on the downlow from Gabriel, he'd already been building his team in his head. Hastur definitely, the grouchy sod. Madame Tracy of course, and he'd suggest she include Heather on her staff. Beatrice caught his attention today as well. He'd need to gather more information on their personal work to see if they could handle a project the scope of what he and Uriel imagined. He'd touch base with Michael as she continued to run a distracting interference between himself and Gabriel. She'd have Gabriel thinking the collaboration was his own idea by the time things became serious. 

Gabriel. Ugh. Crowley adjusted the screen on his mobile so it took in his face and the ridiculous jumper. Gabriel was growing skeevier by the day. He'd be rather upset if Crowley went public with how he appeared this moment. Much more pleasant to think on how Aziraphale might respond to seeing Crowley bundled and warm. He snapped the picture, then realized he had no way to text it over unless he attached it as an email. The coy and suggestive expression he'd aimed for would would seem funny in juxtaposition with the bulky knitting. He checked the selfie. 

The results startled him. Contrary to his plans, his photo was, dare he say, sweet. He'd gone all soft in the eyes, his expression a dopey, carefree thing. His makeup was wiped away, his hair untouched from when he'd toweled it dry after leaving the site of the photoshoot to return to C.B. Headquarters. Imagining Aziraphale made him silly and fond just as Warlock claimed; the evidence was right in front of his face now. 

Crowley thought on Gabriel's words earlier that day. Considered the easy casualness of his talk with Aziraphale. Thought on the initiatives he had spinning in his mind, the changes he yearned to make in the trajectory of his life and career. 

_'Not too bright'_ Gabriel had said, like he was proud. _'I helped mold you into what people wanted.'_ like that wasn't completely fucked up now that Crowley was able to step back and assess the current state of his life. His Image. 

He glanced down at the cozy, soppy selfie again, idly craving another sweet. He wanted Aziraphale to see him this way. His boys. He pulse quickened- how ridiculous- as he thought of fans of The Demon seeing more of this unguarded Crowley. More like his unthinking selfie before the storefront with children's books. What the world would think if he quit hiding the time he'd put into his astrophysics degree or his astronomy hobbies. 

That might be too much. His fingers shook on the phone. 

Just this then. He sucked in a deep breath, blew it out through pursed lips, and uploaded the raw image to all his social media.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> horoscope for Aries from astrolis . com
> 
> Usually I can work on hobbies on weekends, but I have to go in to work and help restock even though it's not my area. Monday or more likely Tuesday for ch 11 since I have it back from editing already and just need to correct. 
> 
> Heather is a cameo for my beta reader as a thank you for volunteering to edit this monstrosity in her spare time. Hi heather!


	11. Interlude 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first of four chapters scattered throughout that is not in either Crowley's or Aziraphale's POV. I know it might not be everyone's cup of tea, but I really enjoy outsider POVs. Michael is not really an outsider in this story, but her plotline made her a good candidate to sneak in this trope.

*

_Taurus on friendship- You might be the only one in position to give a good friend both the kind support and the reality-check they need. Soften your candor so it's not abrasive, but be firm. Your friend needs this push to move forward and will be grateful for your loyalty in the end._

*

Michael clearly recalled the day Lucifer and Crowley purchased the Chelsea residence a little over four years ago. Newly married and utterly smitten, Lucifer wanted Gabriel's finicky eyes to pinpoint flaws before signing. He wanted Michael for everything else. 

“Michael my love,” he'd said over drinks upon his return from his _third_ honeymoon, mocha eyes laser sharp on her. “Please help me, you're my oldest friend, you've been with me through everything. I need to find somewhere Crowley will be happy. He deserves the best, and according to Agnes Nutter's most recent book, mid-April to mid-August is ideal for real estate transactions for Libra.” He had swirled the ice in his whiskey glass with a pleading expression gracing his handsome features. His new wedding ring clicked sharp on the crystal tumbler. “He's it for me, I'm sure of it this time. He simply adores Warlock. Hell, we might be considering a surrogate and give Warlock a sibling.” 

And she, foolish and hopelessly plagued by her love for him as ever had done as he'd asked. She'd found a gorgeous home in Chelsea just far enough from Celestial Bodies Agency headquarters among a selection she curated. She'd picked through contracts and offers and helped hire inspectors, even though the property appeared flawless. 

They had gathered in the luxurious, sunlit foyer while a toddling Warlock was left with the Nanny- Michael, Gabriel, Lucifer, and Crowley, the new addition to a trio that spanned back to university or longer. All four of them had gazed up into the bright space open before them as if crossing the neutral entryway tile were akin to traveling the yellow brick road to finally face the Great and Powerful Oz.

Like it was yesterday, she remembered Lucifer and Gabriel already walking forward, talking of modernizing some wiring and which walls were load-bearing. Lucifer had been Dorothy in this strange Oz, eyes and heart set on Home and family with a new partner, his third attempt. Gabriel the scarecrow, his brain reclaimed after a wild stint in his late teens/early twenties and riding the success of taking over the reins of Celestial Bodies modeling agency from his father. 

Michael thought she'd been the lion, both cowardly and full of courage, a will of steel, orbiting Lucifer's bright sun, the Morningstar. Beloved as a friend but only as such because she wasn't a star on her own. Wasn't flashy or gorgeous. And hadn't Lucifer always chosen stars while he devoted himself to how Agnes Nutter interpreted _the_ stars? Lucifer's Aries and Michael's Capricorn didn't mesh well, did they, because she'd learned, as hogwash as she thought it all. But then his fire wasn't meant to be compatible with Crowley's Libra air sign, so what did it all mean anyhow? 

So courage for her as she learned to stuff her affection away and be a good friend, leaving Crowley as the Tin Man who'd found and then committed his heart at twenty-two, magnetic and blazing within the golden sunlight glow diffusing through the skylights of his potential new home. He'd been stiffer than usual as if in need of lubrication like the true Tin Man. His hands were stuffed into his back pockets, head swiveling around to take it all in with an awed look upon his face. 

What a fool she'd been. 

Standing in the foyer of Lucifer's home today, she paused. The Chelsea home appeared comfortably lived in for all it's elegance. Evidence of two children's belongings lay scattered along an entryway bench. The sunlight seemed subdued from that very first time she'd stepped in. 

She knew now of her mistake that day, the day she'd read Anthony Crowley all wrong. The young model Gabriel had signed upon sight, the late-teen who'd skyrocketed in popularity first with designers, then with marketers. The demon who'd unwittingly tempted and caught Lucifer's attention at a tender twenty years old, much too young for her dear friend in Michael's biased but honest opinion. 

Crowley had been _terrified_ standing in the foyer. _He'd_ been the lion in Oz, a Libra acting as Leo as he summoned up courage to step into the whirlwind life he'd been swept into. Brave, beautiful, and completely in over his head but clearly needing to belong to something, with someone. 

Michael was the true Tin Man of the four, then and now. But she gave away her heart long ago and wrapped the remaining shredded pieces in a wall of iron. Cold as steel rather than as strong. 

Just after noon, Lucifer would be in Warlock's schooling room. She made her way through areas she'd watched shift over the years from newly decorated to after Crowley had moved out. The days she needed to comfort Lucifer through his disbelief. 

She slowed outside the library door. Lucifer sat at a table covered in school books next to Warlock, the tutor gone for the day. He'd be forty soon, but not one gray hair braved his temple. Light lines marked his face now, elegant with age, still easily hidden through foundation if he so chose. He glanced up from Warlock's worksheet sporting bright red reading glasses. As always, she took a moment to compose herself. 

“Michael!” Warlock called out upon registering her in the doorway. He waved and smiled. His welcoming grin slipped between a crack in her walls.“Tell father, how often do you use maths in your day, really?” 

Her eyes flickered to Lucifer's and back to Warlock's. “Don't draw me into your attempts to skive off on your homework,” she said lightly as she pulled a chair on the opposite side of the table. 

Lucifer smiled soft at Warlock when the boy sighed overdramatically. “A break's due, go on,” he said. 

“Yes!” Warlock pumped his fist and threw his pencil down upon his workbook. “I'm gonna play the new game I downloaded on steam!” He waved at both as he scooted out. 

“Don't get too involved!” Lucifer called. “You're finishing this for Mr. Cortese tomorrow!” He slid the reading glasses off and brandished them at Michael with a conspiring smile and playful wink. “This is our little secret, my love.”

It was curious how many defibrillator shocks one could tolerate at the hollow where one's heart should be. Particularly when the one holding the missing heart also wielded the paddles. 

“Once the eyes start going, it's all downhill,” she teased, then she threw all her attention into pulling her tablet from her messenger bag. 

Lucifer rolled his neck and stretched his arms above fluidly to a chorus of crackling and popping. 

“Downhill,” she sang out without looking so the smile she knew he'd flash wouldn't stab painfully at her gut. 

“Oh hush, you. I'm in _fantastic_ shape. Did we set the bar for 'old' at forty, Miss Michael Archangel? See to it we move it somewhere further. Sixty.”

“Half the Board of Directors of Celestial Bodies is over seventy,” Michael said. She found the file she wanted and sent the data to a printer in the corner of the schoolroom before sliding the tablet to Lucifer. 

“Retirement age? Easier to maneuver?” Lucifer slipped his reading glasses back on without comment and studied the information. 

Michael glanced at the numbers she'd been compiling. “Perhaps.”

“Oh my love, I'll have them in my pocket by summer, no doubt. Especially now that Gabriel's mother stepped down when his father passed last year.” 

That was an opening she could pry. “Speaking of our dear Gabriel Celestial. Have you noticed his...lascivious behavior of late?” Lucifer could be particularly stubborn over people he'd claimed as his own, but she was hoping for some awareness. 

“Gabriel's always come on strong, you know this. We _admired_ it in days gone by. ” 

Damn it. She tapped the table with her acrylic nails. “Lucifer. He's slipped over the line to sexual harassment. He's not the same friend we've had since school. I'm certain of it. Especially since you began freelancing rather than being contracted under C.B.” 

“I haven't been up at the main office recently, true.” Lucifer didn't meet her eyes but flipped through the pages with more rigidity than necessary. 

“He's handsy with the models. And I cannot believe you haven't noticed his growing obsession with Crowley,” she accused, because if anything would get him to see-

“He's bothering Anthony?” Lucifer slid the glasses off again, and his eyes narrowed in disappointment. 

“I know both you and Gabriel used to discuss Crowley's - assets- before you and Crowley ever hooked up. Don't look at me like that, I was there.” Her hackles went up at the memory of their crassness, but his embarrassed blush soothed them. 

“It's his parent's agency in the end,” he reasoned. 

Screw that, she thought, right back to angry. “That is no excuse. I can't believe you!” She stood up abruptly and shoved her chair back in, unsure what to pack up first in her anger. 

“Wait wait, my love! Sit back down.” He scrambled to his feet, knocking pages over, and reached across the table for her hand. “You're right, of course you're right.” He shook his head so his short fringe flopped over his browline. When she dared meet his gaze again, he gave her achingly sad puppy eyes.

Damn him to the devil twice over, she thought to herself. “Lucifer.” She sat again, uncertain how she wanted to follow up. 

“He has,” Lucifer said, soft as she'd ever heard him. “I just don't want to see it. Everything's changing. All this mucking about I'm doing with the board. Lilith even flightier when I thought she'd settle. Anthony tore me a new one over it. And even he-”

“She gave up her rights. Happily, I might add,” Michael reminded. Another effort she'd shouldered. 

“Warlock isn't sure if he wants to keep acting. He'll let me know after he films _Tin Tin_. Adam's no longer a baby.” He hadn't released her hand. She let it stay. “Anthony's beginning to find himself, far from what Celestial wants. The world loves him, as it should.”

“Crowley went back to the bookstore and not for the books,” Michael added. To hurt or help, she wasn't sure. 

“Has he gone dreamy-eyed again on someone? For the bookseller? How unusual.” He said this nonchalantly, but he pulled his hand away from Michael's. 

“I haven't looked in on it. He's just mentioned. I walked in on a phone call between them.” She made sure to catch his gaze and added, “He was...different with him.”

“Is that whom he's got the little dalliance with? He's just frantically texted not long ago and asked me to take both boys tomorrow evening. Anthony never schedules on his Saturdays. His little crush will blow over,” he said, dismissive. 

His tone irked. “Maybe?” she said. “He's not like you, only satisfied with someone who could share the cover of _People_ or _GQ._ ” And now it was a little too close to the cavity in her chest. “He might be looking for something serious with someone low-key and comfortable.”

“Oh, don't be silly. Look how many men he's rolled about with since our separation and divorce? Famous, infamous. _The waitstaff_ ,” he added with an aloof sniff. “None of them serious. Pretty distractions. And who'd he _still_ end up coming home with after the menswear event last autumn?” He cocked an eyebrow at her as if he'd proven a point, as if the aftermath hadn't shaken him up inside. 

She had to clean up that mess as well, more than once. Lucifer's broken heart whenever he'd coaxed Crowley into ill advised sex and gotten his hopes up over reconciliation. Crowley's self-flagellation for giving in. And she there, circling, never touching, too invested in Lucifer's happiness, too aware of Crowley's weaknesses. If she _were_ the Tin Man before his journey to Oz, why then did she still feel so much without her heart where it belonged? 

That last 'morning after' months ago now, Crowley'd cornered her in Lucifer's kitchen, hung over with dark circles of worry emphasizing how otherworldly his rare amber eyes really were. Love bites scattered pink over his neck. He bit at his still-swollen lips. “Never again,” he'd said to her as he cobbled together a cup of coffee with shaking hands. “I cannot keep doing this.” And he'd slipped out, his walk of shame while Lucifer still slept, without once questioning why she'd been in Lucifer's home so early in the morning, so comfortable in the kitchen.

Too much introspection for a Friday afternoon. Enough. 

“Crowley and I are working with Uriel Asante on something big,” she said, brisk and business-like. A subject change she knew he'd follow. 

“Oh, Uriel, lovely Uriel.” Lucifer smiled fondly and very genuine. “She's been on a holy quest for fashion since she stepped back from modeling, hasn't she? A design house? And rumored to be integral to the Celestial Bodies' 50th anniversary gala and runway next spring? Fabulous. Good for her.”

“You knew about that, did you?” Michael accused, suspicious but delighted in spite of it. 

“I might have had a word with those on the board who make those decisions.” He casually shuffled the papers on the table before him and tapped them into alignment. She knew she'd find his unsuccessful attempt at hiding his his grin too appealing. She watched him anyhow. 

“Her sun is in Virgo you know,” he continued. “Compatible woman for Crowley to be in business with. Dear Agnes did say recently that Libras should be open to outside opportunities.”

Business, Michael coached herself. He was most distracting when he was effortlessly charming. “I still need to mold my pitch to Gabriel. Make it his idea.” 

“I can-”

“You need to step back. Let me handle this.” She disliked keeping him distant, but the negotiations going on for this partnership were fragile and included elements in Crowley's best interests that Gabriel would nix immediately. Lucifer's actions wavered between unthinking flights of fancy and bending backwards to please others. He was too much of a wild card, especially with a friend as old as Gabriel. 

“That'd be fabulous, my love. All this fiddling over the board of directors is exhausting.” He swung his head to flip his hair as if he were indifferent and not chafing at lack of control. As if she didn't know all his quirks by heart. “I just simply cannot fit anything else, much too busy.”

Lucifer's poorly disguised vein of insecurity would be the death of her. “You just work on these. And think on these numbers.” She stood and retrieved more papers from the printer. “You might be in the position to _buy out_ C.B. if I'm correct.”

“And run it all myself? Owner and C.E.O.? Oh that's a _very_ attractive proposition.” He got to his feet as well and circled the table to stand close. “I don't know what I'd do without you Michael. I really don't. You and Agnes Nutter, how would I get through the days without you both?” He surprised her by pulling her in for a hug. She dropped the pages to the table and had to squeeze her eyes shut even as she returned it with arms slung around his hips, stilling any evidence of her sudden trembling. His body burned where it pressed to hers. She would _not_ allow herself to rest her cheek at his shoulder. 

After a moment, she drew away and snatched the fallen pages of data. She spent longer than necessary situating paperwork in her messenger bag, then looked back to see Lucifer watching with a smile. “Hey, I recognize that song,” he commented. 

“Song?”

“That you've been humming off and on since you popped in.” 

“I don't hum.” Had she been? She grabbed her coat from the back of the chair, confused. 

“You sure are!” He reached for her hand again and hummed a few bars cheerfully. “From the Wizard of Oz, my love. Stuck in your head, I wager?” 

Oh. Fuck. 

He hummed again and sang aloud, “ _Just to register emotion, jealousy – devotion, and really feel the part. I could stay young and chipper and I'd lock it with a zipper, if I only had a heart!_ ” 

He grinned, pleased with himself, a white flash of teeth all for her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for choosing to read, and I hope you are enjoying where I'm going with it!
> 
> Horoscope for Taurus from 411astrology . com.
> 
> I'm going to start including little elements of their natal charts I built in the endnotes for my own amusement. 
> 
> Crowley Oct 21, 1991 (9:15 AM GMT) London, England  
> Sun in Libra  
> Moon in Leo  
> Ascendant in Scorpio  
> 10th house in Virgo


	12. Preparasi

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um. This horoscope for Leo from one of the subscopes of astrology . com made me laugh so hard when I was searching. I had to use it. I choose the header scopes when I'm editing my draft back from beta right before posting. Every one is a plot hint for a future part of this story, so ya know. Yep.

*

_Leo for romance - Love—or lust—is in the air for you, Leo. Breathe it in! Venus enters flirty Gemini on April 3, bringing the right person into your life and setting your heart on fire. Enjoy this whirlwind romance with your usual dramatic flair. The best day to get laid is when the full moon is in romantic Libra on the seventh. Show them that you can be an animal in bed. Bask in the glory of your latest love._

*

Early Saturday evening found Crowley standing in front of his full-length mirror clad in the black mohair silk trousers by Tom Ford he'd chosen and holding a charcoal slim-fit Valentino button-down still upon it's hanger to his chest. “What do we think?” he asked Adam, who paused in jumping on Crowley's bed and attended to his father's query with all the seriousness a three year old could muster. 

“I want blue!” Adam said, giggling. 

Crowley wrinkled his nose and studied the textured charcoal he held, shaking it by the hanger hook. “I donno.” He turned and held it up for the boys. “You mean the shiny slate blue one? If I go black with my hair again maybe. But not now.”

“Yes, do it Pop!” Warlock said from where he was tucked between pillows and a bunched up comforter at the head of the bed. “You haven't dyed your hair since I was seven! It's been ages!”

“Has it been that long?” he said absently with most his attention back on his reflection. 

After a moment of study, Crowley replaced the rejected shirt. He'd probably just end up going with black again, a Ford from the autumn 2017 collection he loved, and maybe... he walked deeper into his closet- yes, he did have a subtly patterned midnight-black cut waistcoat from Uriel Asante that'd pop just enough beneath a fitted silk wool peak lapel jacket from Ford's woman's autumn/winter 2018 collection. Yes. Suitable for where he'd made reservations, and he already knew he looked damn fine in this ensemble. 

When he stepped back into his room, Adam was off the bed and holding up a somewhat ratty t-shirt of The Clash, worn and soft, one of Crowley's favorites. “This one!” Adam held the shirt out in front of himself, barely able to peek over it and keep it from dragging on the ground simultaneously. 

“Don't be stupid,” Warlock called. “'S not fancy enough.” 

“Woah. Warlock. That's not happening.” Crowley watched as Adam's expression fell. He relieved him of the shirt as he ruffled his hair. “But he's right. It's a nice place, remember? How's this?” He brandished the shirt he'd chosen. 

“You're going to _Il Piatto di Legno_?” Warlock said and crawled off the bed from his comfy nest he'd built between the pillows. He eyed Crowley's ensemble with a studious furrow to his brow. Crowley bit down on the inside of his cheek so he wouldn't smile. “Yes, that's good. He'll like it.”

The smile escaped. This was new. He occasionally ran an outfit choice past the boys before on a lark, but never had he involved Warlock in primping up for for a an evening out with a date. In fact, the entire situation sported a patina of the unusual; from the time of his separation from Lucifer, the boys were kept from his flings for their own protection. They'd briefly met one man he'd dated for a few months while at a grand holiday party thrown by Celestial Bodies Modeling Agency. Warlock had not reacted positively. He'd only expressed wariness over Aziraphale so far. 

“Pasketti place!” Adam cheered upon learning where he'd be taking Aziraphale. 

The penthouse door buzzer sounded as Crowley dithered between two dress shirts. He knew he was overthinking it but couldn't help himself. He'd rung Aziraphale earlier to confirm since he couldn't text him. Certainly, it would be an apology of sorts, but one with hopes for this to be a way to get to know each other further. A test drive, perhaps give him a glimpse of the goods on offer. 

As he made his selection and quickly buttoned up, he considered his missteps in pursuing Aziraphale. In his teens, dating was easy and innocent. As his fame grew, so did access to casual sex without strings; it wasn't boasting to say he needed little effort. Work proximity and a desire for steadiness and maturity made Lucifer's advances attractive. His repeated mistakes with Lucifer post divorce he blamed on a wistfulness for connection.

And these days- he dealt with the world with an adjusted perspective. No one had ever disliked attention he'd brought their business interests before. It'd frustrated and upset Aziraphale. Nearly all his recent hook-ups included a good amount of sexting thanks to busy schedules. Aziraphale was inaccessible this way. Most his relationships since his split from Lucifer were short-lived things within industry peers, peppered by a handful of one-nighters with men who caught his eye. The thought of one and done with Aziraphale made him ill. 

He _never_ mixed his pleasure and his parenthood. He needed to protect them from heartache or attachment or just about everything else. Yet he wanted to parade his boys before Aziraphale, seeking approval or awareness of his potential or _something_ he didn't understand, like a fucking Attenborough special on mating rituals.

He was in the middle of slipping on his vest when Lucifer stepped into the bedroom behind Warlock. Adam scrambled though pillows and comforters to hop back off Crowley's bed and hug his father around the legs. 

“Nanny Ash's not back yet?” Crowley asked. He donned the jacket he intended on to complete his look and met Lucifer's eyes in the mirror while he adjusted. 

Lucifer had scooped up Adam to nuzzle his curls. “She's not due back until Monday, love. This was _your_ weekend originally, if you recall. You never want for her services when you've not got anything going on.” He turned to Warlock, who'd come to Crowley's side near the mirror. “Please remember your charger this time. I ought to purchase stock in that company for the amount I spend on replacements.” 

“You owed me,” Crowley said, not wanting to seem too thankful. His lines on the full ensemble seemed all off. And maybe he should change his shoes after all to compliment how these trousers broke at the ankle? He owned a Tom Ford leather cape toe chelsea boot that'd go. He nudged several options of footwear with a toe. “But it's helpful you're free.” 

“Oh jeez Pop, you look fine,” Warlock cut in to his twitchy fussing, amused. 

“No worries,” Lucifer said. He allowed Adam to slide down and helped himself to the tray of Crowley's cufflinks. “Michael will be around. She'll help.” Crowley ducked back out of the closet and watched as Lucifer selected a pair. 

“Because she's so maternal,” he snapped, eyes back on the mirror. He allowed both Adam and Warlock to adjust his waistcoat and jacket and turned from the mirror to face Lucifer. 

“Don't be callous, love. She was maternal enough to surrogate Adam for us. Now, spin round.” Lucifer paused to appraise Crowley long enough to make him fidget beneath the heat of Lucifer's gaze. God damn it. Lucifer smirked and gave a cartoonish wolf-whistle that had both boys giggling. “Ford all over. Where _are_ you going tonight?” He opened his palm to display the cufflinks he'd selected. They, of course, complimented Crowley's outfit perfectly. 

Crowley held an arm out for Lucifer, giving in to the assistance. “ _Il Piatto di Legno_. Nice and sedate. Everybody minds their own damn business.”

“You don't have to tell me.” Lucifer slipped one cufflink in without fumbling. Crowley had seen him do it nearly asleep before. “And who's the lucky gentleman this time?” 

Warlock had taken the other cufflink but wasn't having any success with it. “The bookshop angel Pop calls him.”

Crowley felt himself blush and pulled his arm back the second Lucifer finished so he could assist Warlock in fitting the second. 

“Really,” Lucifer drawled. “Oh Crowley, love. The portly Soho queen in the dated ensamble and little gold frames from the eighteen hundreds?” He laughed but with only a trace of mocking.“That's delightful. He certainly was an angel. I've read that sweet little duck book to Adam about a hundred times already.”

“Alright, shut up. Like _someone_ hasn't told you,” he grumbled. He checked his reflection again. Hair half up and half down seemed best. Or maybe all up. Aziraphale had admired his neck the other day; he could indulge the stolen glances. 

“Adam, Warlock, pack what you need please, my darlings.” Lucifer helped himself to a seat on a velvet bench positioned at the end of Crowley's bed and met his eyes in the mirror reflection again. “You know, your horoscope this morning did say-”

Crowley groaned and sauntered over to his vanity to pluck a carved rosewood hairstick from the pile and pin the bulk of his curls into a loose bun. “Not your bloody fake star garbage.”

“Love, you know I always check yours, no getting around it. As I was saying, Agnes did say something about feeling good within yourself, looking fabulous, and enjoying your popularity. Wait a moment...” Lucifer tapped at his phone. 

“I'll pass,” Crowley said, replacing the stick a second time and pulling some strands free to frame his face. 

“Aha. 'The day's planetary constellation is bringing out your most attractive features. But if you are single and looking for a romantic liaison, you will have to find a way to make your intentions clear. You seem to be a little intense, and may need to cool off a bit so as not to frighten anyone away'.” 

“Intense?” he bit out, listening to the stupid thing in spite of it all. “I'm not intense.” He looked once more at himself in the mirror and turned to face Lucifer instinctively for the approval he both craved and found vexing. Whatever expression he wore brought Lucifer to his feet. He just barely held back a wretched, frustrated sigh over his pathetic neediness. 

Lucifer helped himself to fixing Crowley's tie and lapel and leaned in to peck a kiss on his cheek. “Oh Anthony, no need to stew in your anxiety so much. Nothing wrong with an embarrassing little crush on someone offbeat.” 

Crowley gently shoved him away, disgruntled. “It's not embarrassing,” he corrected. “I just don't wanna scare him away.”

“So listen to Agnes,” Lucifer said wryly. 

" 'Sides, How would you know? When have you ever dated someone you haven't shared a spread or talkshow with?” 

“Whatever the stars say, love,” he said flippantly, waving a hand. “But for now, I _prefer_ stars.”

He shook his head over Lucifer's ridiculousness and called out for Warlock and Adam. They trundled into the bedroom one right after another with loaded backpacks. Adam clung to his stuffed puppy and Warlock already had his face in his Switch. Crowley hugged both boys. As he kissed their foreheads, he whispered, “Behave for your father and Michael.”

“This is weird,” Warlock mumbled. 

“Come along and try the loo first, Adam,” Lucifer said, already mid-stride out the bedroom door. “Who thinks we should stop for ice cream on the way home?” 

Adam cheered and ran to follow, but Crowley took hold of Warlock's shoulder. “Warlock'll be there in a sec.”

“Hey, kid,” he asked quietly. Warlock actually looked up from his game and met Crowley's gaze. “What's going on?”

Warlock looked down at the floor and then spent a good twenty seconds scratching at the nape of his neck and digging the toe of his sneaker into the carpet. “Dumb stuff.” 

Crowley itched the side of his nose and stuffed his hands into the pockets of his trousers. They were both bewildered by the state of their own lives lately, weren't they. “Dumb stuff you wanna keep to yourself or dumb stuff you wanna share?” he tried. 

“Um.” Warlock looked back up at Crowley, and finally Crowley could make out his worried expression. Ah. 

“Is it. Er,” he could do this. “Is it my date tonight?” He hoped not, but Warlock and Adam took priority. 

“You guys think I'm just a kid.”

Crowley only cocked an eyebrow at that. 

Warlock finally grinned. “Okay, so like I'm ten but I go online, and I see pictures of you and Father out together at parties 'n stuff. 'N pictures of you and all these other guys I never saw besides that one guy you brought to the one work party thing with the really big cake. With the brown hair who smelled like he stepped in dog poo.” 

His stomach felt suddenly like lead. “Go on.” His already jittery nerves went haywire. 

“I donno. Like maybe it'd be good for you to find a nice regular person for real so Dad stops thinking you're gonna move back home one day.”

“He what-” He froze. He knew submitting to Lucifer's shameless temptations in his yearning for familiar intimacy would have consequences. But for Warlock to _notice_. Fuck. He was even more grateful he'd steeled his resolve last autumn.

Warlock slung his backpack off and squatted down to stuff his Switch into one of the zipper pouches. “I don't think he _really_ thinks it, but it's not like he ever goes anywhere with anybody like you do except for Michael. I donno. I like us having two houses. You guys are nice to each other not being by each other all the time. Michael says he's just thickheaded, but don't tell him I said that!” 

“Michael thinks everyone is thickheaded but you and Adam,” Crowley reassured in what he hoped was a normal tone rather than the squealing hamster wheel his brain had become. This was a bigger issue than he'd expected, and he still really didn't know what was wrong.

“I wouldn't replace you or Adam with someone else, especially not just to send a message your father,” he tried. He knew it'd be valid worry based on his mother's behavior. 

“I'm not worried about that.” And he sounded so sure of it, some of the chokehold on Crowley's emotions relented. 

“Warlock? Coming?” Lucifer called from somewhere in another part of the penthouse. 

“Yeah, gimmie a sec, Dad!” he called out. He stood up from his backpack and grabbed at Crowley's arm. Crowley looked down at him and slid his hand from his pocket, bemused.

“Pop,” he said very seriously. “You should be happy for real. You should do stuff that makes you happy and stop trying to only make everybody else happy. I mean, I do stuff that makes everybody else happy that I don't like too 'n it sucks. You looked so sad before. The other day you were so happy you looked silly. If going somewhere with the bookshop man makes you happy 'n he wants to be around you, _who cares_ what everybody else says, right?” 

“Right,” he echoed, stunned. “You're pretty smart, kid,” he added with a surge of pride. 

“Nah.” Warlock started walking toward the door, thankfully before Lucifer poked a head back in over the delay. “Old people hafta worry about so much really complicated stuff and do so much boring stuff that they forget how to do nice stuff for themselves. Bye pop! And tell him don't get the squid thing because it's really gross.” 

Crowley stood, frozen, the mixture of conflicting emotions settling into contentment. Warlock had tapped the reason why everything felt so charged, so full of potential of late. His career trajectory, his working and personal relationships, his urges to talk to someone about his hobbies and bring them to light. _He ached for change and was seeking happiness for himself for once._

He checked the mirror once more. Fixed his hair. It really was becoming too long, even for the bun. Perhaps it _was_ time for a cut and color. He paused at his vanity to line his eyes and add a muted color to his lips. Selected a pair of cheap sunglasses from a stash to prop atop his head carefully so as not to muss his hair. Aziraphale probably wouldn't care, he considered, checking his eyes once more, wouldn't notice the off-brand or even so, wouldn't make a huge deal over it like _some people._ He checked his teeth. Yep. Still white. Fuck, this was stupid. 

“You look jaw dropping. Stunning,” he reassured his reflection. Warlock had a point on his ridiculous expression; he'd gotten Aziraphale to accept an invite out, and thinking on it really did light something incandescent in his chest. He rehearsed a seductive come-hither stare and stepped back some to take a mirrored selfie. “Fucking heartstopping, you are,” he told his reflection. “He'll be floored and wanna see you again,” Crowley said aloud, his own pep talk. He was pleased with the results. 

“There's my image you want, Gabriel, you dickhead. And none of it's for Celestial.” The mirror reflected his wicked smile as he uploaded the selfie to all his social media. They didn't need to know it was all meant for one quiet, fascinating man hiding within towers of books who'd likely never see it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> horoscope Lucifer reads off to Crowley from sometime in november 2019 horoscope . com


	13. Waiting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cafe astrology for the header horoscope for Scorpio (Anathema and Gabriel if you're playing along for the plot hints)
> 
> This is a fairly large chapter for me but needed to be as one. I don't know how fan authors do huge chapters like this all the time because it took me forever just to put in the beta edits!

*

_Scorpio- Venus enters your solar eighth house today, dear Scorpio, for an extended stay. Intensity, passion, and emotional attachment are prominent themes in your love life during this trend. It's a good time for attracting resources from outside sources or for working out money problems or power dynamics. This cycle favors a focus on the more intricate or complex side of your relationships or finances. While there can be ups and downs later in the cycle, you get plenty of opportunities to explore these themes._

*

_“It's a date.”_

Yesterday afternoon, Aziraphale caught Crowley's murmured words just as he was about to hang up the telephone handle onto it's cradle. And Crowley'd rung up just hours ago to confirm, a quick check in and nonsensical assurance his 'fans' would soon be bothering knitters capable of handling a Fair Isle pattern or creators of genuine Shetland product. Was it a date? Was it it truly an apologetic meal? Aziraphale was unsure. Uncertainty never sat well with him, more so in the years after his brain injury. 

He settled on dressing as though expecting an amicable meal at a nice restaurant with a new gentleman he wanted to impress. One of his better button-down shirts in powder blue with pressed collar, paired with a tartan bow-tie touched with stripes of a similar shade. A waistcoat classically cut in soft camel. He went into a darker shade in the family of tans and browns for his trousers and retrieved one of his finer jackets from a selection in his closet. Classic pieces, some antique in style and cut if not age. He had a preference and committed to it. 

Once dressed, he paced the shop and opened a drawer where he kept his cut lengths of jute rope, rings, and dowel wood. What was once part of occupational therapy had become psychologically soothing. He mindlessly worked on prusik knots, squares, a catspaw tie off the decorative iron railings to his upper balcony, humming along with the the Vivaldi he'd put on. It burned some time and settled his nerves until he caught himself thinking again- out with a supermodel. 

Perhaps he might...he drifted over to the freshly typed horoscopes left within an envelope near his typewriter awaiting Newt's visit tomorrow. He could still smell the unique metallic ink from where he stood. He dropped his ropes to the coffee table. 

“Don't do this to yourself,” Aziraphale fussed, but he still slid a page free to reread one he'd just cast earlier that week for Leo in the area of Love: _The celestial configuration indicates that you have a day of real passion and romantic love in store for you. You and a love interest may well discover new heights to your relationship through trying out something different together. If you are looking for romance, anywhere connected with travel, sports, gambling, philosophy, or the theater will be a great setting to have fun._

Ah. 

He needn't get wrapped up in his own readings. He returned the pages and wound up with _Emma_ on his sofa, an old standby, the thick, aged paper comforting against his fingers. 

Soon frantic knocking pulled his attention. He stumbled to his feet, touched up his outfit, and made his way to the door. 

“Yoo-hoo!” he heard Crowley calling through the heavy wood. “Did you forget?”

Aziraphale scrabbled at the lock, apologizing before even opening the door. 

“I got caught up!” he said, feeling like a fool. “I'm so sorry-” he began, then his thoughts dissolved. 

Crowley propped his elbow upon the door jamb in a lazy, seductive lounge the moment it was available. He shrugged dismissively, his painted lips quirked in a trace smile. Aziraphale's breath hitched at the sight of him long and lean in nearly all black, a flash of- good lord, were those diamonds?- at his cuffs, and hair swept up to offer a fetching tease of his slender neck. 

Aziraphale worried the hem of his coat with pinched fingers. “You weren't out here long, were you?” Good lord, he was already messing everything up. He couldn't parse Crowley's expression behind his sunglasses. 

“Nah.” Crowley tipped his sunglasses downward a sliver as if he'd read Aziraphale's thoughts. His eyes swept him in an obvious once over, a slow smile curling at his lips. “Ready?”

He didn't _seem_ to be irritated. Opposite, in fact. 

Aziraphale found himself babbling, “I meant to distract myself and got lost-”

“In a book or just now,” he teased, and he sounded so smug, so _pleased_ at his ability to bedevil Aziraphale that it was evident even in the loose sway of his walk as he stepped away from the building. 

Aziraphale felt his blush warm his cheeks and turned to lock his door and calm himself while doing so. “Yes, that. I mean, a book. _Emma_ by Austen if you must know. I'm not usually this flighty. Well I can be,” he corrected, since Crowley would see it himself in due time. He hastened to catch up. 

“No need to explain yourself, Aziraphale.” He lead the way to the curbside, turning back toward him to add, “What would a book angel be without his books?”

“I hardly think-” he began and cut himself short. His stomach twisted into a pretzel, and he swallowed hard. Crowley had approached a shiny, classic vehicle of some sort, gleaming impeccably beneath the neon lights from a venue across the street. You can do this, Aziraphale thought. “Oh. My word. That's quite a vehicle! Tip-top shape. Very old!” 

“Yep,” Crowley said with pride. “First thing I bought when I had enough. Always wanted one, wavered on the year, but I knew it had to be a classic Bentley.” He opened the door for Aziraphale and circled to the driver side. “Thing's got it's own bank account, though. Needs it.”

“I.” Aziraphale paused at the door. His heart skittered in his chest. Oh hell. 

“Something wrong?” Crowley asked when he noticed Aziraphale freeze. 

“I need to tell you something.” He slid into the seat, hands clenched together in front of him. He could do this. He'd gone through years of therapy. He'd been in Newt's car. Cabs. The psychologist working with him post crash made sure he was comfortable as a passenger before releasing his case over a decade ago. Aziraphale, however, would never drive again. 

“You okay?” Crowley's voice dropped a notch. Somewhere in the midst of Aziraphale's panic, he'd removed his sunglasses. Now his amber eyes were wide and concerned. 

“I'm sorry. I'm already ruining this,” Aziraphale said, his throat tightening up. 

“No no!” Crowley's hand hovered in the air as if he wanted to comfort him and settled on the seat between. “Please. What's going on?”

Aziraphale sucked in a deep breath and twisted his father's ring encircling his finger. He flicked his eyes to his ghostly reflection upon the windscreen glass and steadied himself. Might as well clear the air over it right off the bat this time 'round. Minimizing the affects of his accident and losses while hiding both his trauma and Agnes Nutter from his last relationship were disastrous. 

He was touched by the genuine concern in Crowley's words. They didn't know each other yet, really, and here he was, expressive eyes solemn and waiting on him. 

“Years ago,” he began, pained but well rehearsed at the retelling, “in my second year at Exeter, I was driving my parents' car back with them when another driver struck us nearly head-on.”

He paused to blink back frustrated tears. Crowley remained still in a way Aziraphale hadn't seen from him yet. “Both my parents were killed on impact, but I wouldn't know for weeks because I sustained an extensive concussion and wound up in a coma.”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley said softly. “That's horrible.” He mouth moved soundlessly as though other words were fighting each other. His hands fluttered at the steering wheel, then one reached forward tentatively and brushed away a tear that'd escaped. Crowley's fingers remained steady and comforting upon Aziraphale's cheek and jaw.

Aziraphale's burst of bitter, sorrowful laughter was unexpected. What a bleak start to a da- to a dinner out. “It was a- was a long recovery.” He forced a wobbly smile. There, he thought. Take it or leave it, it was out there, raw and wounded yet after fifteen years. 

Crowley's hand slipped away, and he looked determined when he put the car into drive. “I admit, I'm a bit of a speed demon behind the wheel,” he said. He shook his head though and glanced over at Aziraphale after allowing him a moment to compose himself. “But I'm very careful with the boys in the car. I can be careful for you.”

“That's kind,” Aziraphale said, flustered. “But I don't expect you to change yourself to accommodate my shortcomings.”

“It's not a _shortcoming_ or whatever the hell you're calling it.” He said the word as if it'd personally offended him. 

The gesture soothed some of Aziraphale's doubts, but he wasn't finished. “There's other things that've never returned. Some short term memory, some lingering issues...” he let the words drift off. 

Crowley glanced over at him and back to the road. “Got it. Brain all shook up a long while ago. Knocked you for a loop. You said, fuck off, world, I'm moving forward.” 

“That's generous of you.” Aziraphale glanced around the car before looking back at Crowley in profile. He watched passing lights play upon Crowley's skin with shadow and brightness. “But I don't think I've budged very much over the years. Others have...” he tried to think of a kind way to say grew bored of his unchanging ways compounded by all his secrets.

“ _Others_ are wankers if they think that makes you unworthy. How 'bout you let me decide for myself what I think?” He turned his head enough to meet Aziraphale's eyes with a tight but authentic grin.

Aziraphale met his eyes silently and then turned back to watch out the window. Every moment with Crowley was so loaded with novel emotion. It already differed from anything he'd ever experienced. 

“Look, we're here. Safe as houses.” Crowley's words broke into his thoughts, still unexpectedly tender. And they _had_ pulled up to a fine dining establishment, a side entrance but still staffed by valet. “Hey,” he said, hand poised on the door to open it. “We all have shit we haul around. Wouldn't be people if we didn't.” 

Aziraphale sat frozen only for a moment and opened the door. The preformed image he'd built of what a model- a well-known supermodel- might behave like in a realistic situation rather than simple flirtation in his shop deteriorated into flame. Last evening, he'd panicked; how could he have anything in common with Supermodel Anthony Crowley? What would they talk about? But he thought he might find a wealth of conversation between them if he'd just get past his shameful misjudgments. He vowed to discard them and start fresh. 

“Coming?” Crowley said from beneath the canopy. His hopeful expression lured Aziraphale from the car and to his side. Tall, striking, and waiting on _him_. Unbelievable. 

“I'm looking forward to it,” he said, and he really was now in spite of all he'd just dumped between them. “I've never been here before.” 

“'S quiet. Foods good. Thanks,” he said to the host while he made himself comfortable at the proffered table. He seemed so at ease, so genuinely delighted to be here with Aziraphale. Earnest. 

His heart thumping far too quick, Aziraphale sat down, eager to enjoy this place and Crowley's company. He'd written off models as gorgeous, air-headed drug addicts who never ate. The two he'd met were nothing like the stereotype he'd absorbed, and he burned shamefully at his pious error. 

Crowley was watching him study the restaurant's offerings, mostly Italian. “I hope you like it. Should be quiet. Only a few things on the menu, all the buzzwords. Farm-raised. Local. Farm-to-table. A lot of farming. Not that there's a farm around here. Are there farms nearby here?” He drummed his fingers on the tablecloth and flipped a shiny butter knife over multiple times. His eyes darted away the moment Aziraphale's met his, and his cheeks went pink. 

Was he- was he _nervous?_ To be seen with someone as disproportionately matched as Aziraphale was to him in public? Part of Aziraphale's heart stuttered but the more logical and optimistic portions smothered that fear away. No, Crowley was nervous because he really had thought of it as a date. Stupidly, Aziraphale had assumed someone who always had eyes on him wouldn't suffer nerves over something as mundane as a dinner out. He was digging out all sorts of judgmental splinters today, wasn't he? 

It was time to lean into his Leo gifted confidence so they would enjoy this evening. “Do you recommend something?” he asked with a little wave of the menu. 

“I like the black truffle gnocchi. Warlock gets it sometimes 'n I've had a bite. He says don't get the squid-ink pasta.” And finally, the corner of Crowley's mouth hooked upward in a self-conscious smile. He circled his fingertip over the rim of the water glass the waitstaff had filled upon seating them at this table. 

“This Ballotina Di Fagiano looks appealing,” he managed, though his attention was glued to the progress of Crowley's index finger. “I don't know what you'd pair it with.”

“I can't drink this evening, but the wine selection's pretty good.” He seemed to settle back into the easiness from when he first picked Aziraphale up. He cocked his head and met Aziraphale's inquiring glance head on. “Order whatever you want. I have a fitting tomorrow for an event coming up. Can't eat much, no alcohol, no water tomorrow morning beforehand.”

“That sounds terrible!” Aziraphale blurted. He heard his words and realized how rude he sounded. “Oh, I apologize. I keep sticking my foot into it.”

Crowley leaned forward, puzzled. A lock of hair slid from the bun nestled at the nape of his neck and contrasted bright against the darkness of his angular jacket shoulders. “Whatd'ya mean?”

Before he could answer, a waiter approached the table and quickly took their orders, a risotto and ballotina for Aziraphale and zuppa di funghi for Crowley. Aziraphale watched as the waiter glanced twice in surprise at Crowley but made no fuss. He did, however, defer to him over Aziraphale when taking their wine order. The relaxed elegance of _Il Piatto di Legno_ must be what drew Crowley here accompanied by his children. The softened but still comfortable lighting and spaciousness between tables allowed surrounding conversation to remain subtle and only added to the peaceful ambiance. A candle flickered away cheerfully mid-table and cast a warm, rich glow. 

When his attention returned to Crowley, he realized with mild surprise Crowley'd been watching him the entire time. “It really is lovely in here. Thank you.”

“Ehhhh. No problem.” Crowley moved his cloth napkin around far more than necessary, then all at once, released it and pinned him with his questioning gaze. “But hey, what were you saying before? About your foot?”

“Ah.” Best be honest on this issue as well. “I've had to correct a handful of prejudices over those that do your sort of work,” he admitted. 

“Ahhhh.” Crowley nodded knowingly. “The 'essssss'” He extended the S into soft hiss. 

“The what?”

“Starving, stupid, slut.” 

“That's. That's awful!” And something akin to what he'd always heard, he was ashamed to note. 

“That's how it is,” Crowley said despondently. “I'm used to it. Most the others are used to it.”

Aziraphale held both palms outward as if he could stop Crowley's thoughts with his hands. “But clearly it's not true!”

“To be fair, sometimes it feels like it.” He was back to flipping his flatware over again, this time tense enough for the tendons to draw taut across his hand and wrist. 

Aziraphale committed right then and there to shove all his mislaid beliefs into a box and chuck it into the sea. Whether this da- _dining together_ lead to others, or if even he'd never encounter a celebrity or model again, he resolved to not jump to conclusions. Or find any reasons to give longevity to gossip, Anathema's outlandish beliefs aside. 

He wiggled in his seat a little and reached to still Crowley's fidgeting, only realizing at the last moment how presumptuous it was of him. Well in for a penny, he thought as Crowley's warm hand froze beneath his own. Crowley's eyes cut to meet his from beneath his lowered lashes, fragile and unguarded. 

He had no idea how long they remained that way, the moment captured in amber and their gazes caught up in each other. 

Eventually, a sommelier presented and poured a glass of a 2009 Moschioni 'Rosso Celtico' neither acknowledged. “Tell me something you do in your off time,” Aziraphale asked. “A hobby.” He drew his hand back and occupied it with the wineglass instead. Every movement seemed charged, expectant. 

Crowley's responding smile looked nothing like he'd seen before; it was false and thin. “I spend time with my kids. Maintain a strict diet and fitness routine. Nightclubs and parties. Raise a little hell.” 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, softening his voice. He could see rippling vibrations upon the surface of the water glass Crowley held by the stem with one faintly trembling hand. How could someone be so rigidly high-strung and delicately vulnerable simultaneously? “Now that you've got that ridiculousness out, what do you really enjoy?” 

Interruption came again in the form of the waiter arriving to place down Crowley's soup and Aziraphale's double order. Aziraphale paused to take in the exquisitely presented ballotina of pheasant and aromatic risotto. It almost looked too good to eat. “This is fabulous, please thank the chefs!” He beamed at the waiter in pleasure. 

“Let me know if you need anything else,” the waiter said before finally cracking a pleasant smile as he stepped away. Aziraphale turned back only to be perplexed by Crowley's attentive and eager expression as he watched from across the table. 

“Looks good?” Aziraphale asked with some confusion, nodding at the elegant dishes before them and warming under his intense regard. 

“You're like looking into the sun,” Crowley murmured. His posture relaxed further. He hadn't even glanced at his meal, still watching Aziraphale. 

“Oh,” Aziraphale said softly. A wave of bashfulness engulfed him throughout but was no detriment to enjoying his meal. He sampled his first bite. Unbelievable. No wonder the menu hadn't included prices, because this was clearly out of his budget. He'd savor every mouthful. “I see why you enjoy this place!” he gushed. He looked up from his plate and caught Crowley's intent stare. As if Aziraphale's approval and enjoyment mattered. 

“Nevermind the rubbish I said a few minutes ago.” Crowley finally looked away and shook his head, sheepish. “Remember when I said we all have shit we haul around?”

“My dear-” Aziraphale began in response to Crowley's rueful expression. 

Crowley paused for several bites of his hearty, earthy soup. He waved his hand in the air in a brushing-away motion while he finished chewing, appearing primed to speak.

“I'm sure you understand I love spending time with my boys,” he began. 

“Of course, Crowley. No question there.” 

“So another thing I do. I'm an amateur astronomer. I've even built my own telescope.” He grinned, ducking his head as if he could ever pass as shy, then tipped his chin back up. “That was before kids, by the way,” he added. “Everything's locked up these days but my travel 'scope until Adam's older.”

“The books you asked for!” Aziraphale connected some dots and found his admiration growing. 

Crowley nodded. “It wasn't just a lark. As a child I wanted to be an astronaut, then I realized I didn't want to, um, perform some bodily functions zero gravity. Then I discovered astronomy. Astrophysics. It's _real_ , not like Lucifer and Gabriel and their astrology.”

Aziraphale swallowed a slice of roasted potato wrong, went bug-eyed as he briefly coughed, then laughed awkwardly. “That's er, that's interesting,” he managed while fumbling for his glass of water. Oh dear, he thought. Best not touch that. Which was the right choice, because Crowley suddenly calmed at his admission, a burden unloaded. His entire countenance attained a serene peacefulness. 

“I put in nearly two years of coursework before I dropped-out from Uni. Marks were high, so it wasn't-” he trailed off and helped himself with more of his soup. 

“What happened?” Aziraphale prompted gently. 

Half of Crowley's mouth quirked upwards. “Victim of my own success. I needed money. Modeling for art courses was ridiculously simple. Gabriel Celestial heard about me from someone in the department or something; he scouted me and asked me to walk for a designer as a test. Then he offered a contract for more money than I'd ever seen. I tried to juggle both at first. But I'm good,” he said without shame. “And more designers requested me on their runway. Then exclusives rolled in, and by that point, I'd missed a huge chunk of my semester.” 

Aziraphale considered his own astronomy experience he found necessary for functional astrology. “I know a little bit. Why not finish some day?”

He huffed and twisted a cloth napkin into a tight snake. “I'm a model now. Too late.” 

“Pish posh. Careers can change. Or why can't you perform some volunteer work with a star-watching thingie, a planet something or observatory, that's what they call it, correct?” He watched as Crowley paused in his fidgeting to meet his eyes. Aziraphale smiled in encouragement. “Teach children how to use a telescope, or oh, host a little segment. Celebrities do that sort of thing all the time.”

At once, Crowley looked so achingly yearning, so full of unfiltered want, it tore at Aziraphale's heart. Then he shook his head, the emotions masked. “It's not my _image_. I'm just the slutty Demon,” he said, his words taking on an edge of melancholy. An artificially lewd expression crept back. “ 'Whore with a heart of gold' 's all I am according to some,” he grumbled with the bearing of quoting someone. His words edged with a growing anger, but whether it was directed toward himself or another, Aziraphale couldn't tell. Crowley was certainly agitated again though; he'd taken a breadstick from the offerings earlier but was now shredding it into little pieces into his soup bowl with intense little motions.

“Don't be ridiculous,” Aziraphale said, distressed. He rest his fork upon the edge of his dish so he could meet Crowley's eyes straight on. “You are much more than that. I don't know who is filling your head with that nonsense, Crowley, but it's so far from being true...” he trailed off, hunting through his mind for just the right words but surfacing empty. He'd been unprepared for emotions to strip him raw earlier and now it seemed Crowley was set to power through his own. What had he said earlier, in for a penny? In for a pound it'd be then. Their little dinner or date or whatever one might label it had taken on an unexpected weight and intimacy. Rather than anxiously recoiling as he tended, he felt embraced by his own steady serenity. Something instinctive told him Crowley didn't believe the words he was parroting either.

He folded his hands and waited out Crowley's darting glances until his fretting gentled. 

“Ah, but you're thinking, oh poor Crowley, trapped in this life he never wanted. You don't understand, angel.”

Aziraphale flushed at the nickname but Crowley moved onward. “I love what I do. Mostly. 'M not fond of being in swimwear outdoors in February,” he said, his eyes finally lighting with humor rather than tension. “But the rest of it.” He looked off to the side as if lost in memories. “I enjoy feeling powerful, sexy. It's fun to blow people's minds, get them to consider the naughty things that make them feel a little guilty.” He waggled his eyebrows at Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale had a sudden urge to fix his bow-tie, growing hot beneath his collar. 

“But I also love the clothes. The shoes. The atmosphere. The speed of it all. There's always something new happening. It's always changing. I made so many connections through it all, I'm not even worried about what I'll do when I'm over...” he trailed off, amber eyes widening as if the very thought had just occurred to him. 

It all sounded so foreign to Aziraphale, but the basics were understandable. He could only be practical. “Why can't you have both?,” he wondered, then swallowed hard and flushed when Crowley's eyes locked onto his with full attention. “The er. Sexy thing- and smart. I've met all sorts who embody both. You're so proud of your attractiveness and lovely face and... well- just look,” he sputtered to a standstill, vexed as Crowley's eyes went heated. His knowing smirk grew as Aziraphale resorted to sweeping a hand in a quick vertical motion. Oh the cheek of him, Aziraphale thought. 

Emboldened and in hopes of making a point, Aziraphale pushed his glasses to the bridge of his nose, splayed his palms onto the tablecloth and leaned forward with intent. He cocked an eyebrow and studied Crowley with what was likely a devilish little smile of his own based on how daring he felt. “And you're so very clever, Crowley, so intelligent. Astrophysics? You have no idea how _sublime_ some find a mind like yours. You should be so pleased with yourself instead of burying it.”

Now it was Crowley's turn to flush high on his cheeks, his eyes gone round and teasing smile shifting into a light, bashful thing. He dipped his chin and his long fingers went right back to twisting the cloth napkin. 

“I dropped out-” he mumbled, but Aziraphale wasn't about to let him to speak so wretchedly about himself.

“So? One mustn't assume all learning must take place within the walls of university. You keep abreast of things, correct?” 

“I do. I-” his eyes flickered around the room without landing, like a picky butterfly in a floral garden. They finally settled back on Aziraphale's. He slid his nearly empty bowl aside and propped his elbows onto the table so he could rest his chin upon interlaced fingers. 

“Others don't consider me that bright,” he said conversationally as if his emotions weren't apparent in every shadow and line on his face.

“Aha!” Aziraphale said, catching him out. He angled his head and pointed at Crowley in a quick gesture. “What did you say earlier? 'Others are _wankers_ ',” he quoted and ignored how ridiculous he felt saying such, especially when Crowley's faded smile suddenly flipped into something soft and surprised. 

The waiter must have been silently waiting on an appropriate time to step in because he took their pause in conversation to sweep the dishware up into his arms. “Dessert, my friends?” he suggested. 

Aziraphale glanced up at him and back to Crowley, who was now watching him with a soft expression.

“Go on,” Crowley urged. 

“Whatever you recommend is best,” he said to the waiter absently. He couldn't seem to pull his eyes away from Crowley's unblinking regard. 

“Excellent, sir. Will be only moments.”

Aziraphale knew his face had likely gone sappy, but it didn't deter Crowley from tilting his head as if puzzling him out. A comfortable silence fell between them, the restaurant atmosphere drifting away as if they dined within a private setting. 

He blinked when the waiter returned with a pale, decadently frosted sponge cake placed aside a generous portion of gelato. Aziraphale could not resist a quick inhale of breath at the sight, lemon and lavender and so attractively plated. He didn't particularly desire to know the price of this dish either.

“I guess I've been keeping it all hidden for so long to preserve my image, I bought into it,” Crowley admitted out of nowhere. It startled Aziraphale. Had they just been staring at each other all this time, he wondered.

“Surely not?” He dug his fork into the sponge and gelato, keeping the ratio of frosting reasonable. His first bite had his eyes fluttering half-closed against his will. Good lord, this place was divine. Crowley said something he didn't parse, and he opened his eyes to see him watching with a wide grin. “Sorry?” he said, slightly embarrassed at indulging so thoroughly. 

Crowley's smirk returned, much to Aziraphale's confusion. “I've never been upstaged by a cake,” he explained. Aziraphale's ears heated up. He helped himself to another bite anyhow. “What I said was, we all have an image we keep up, don't we. Secrets we keep to ourselves.”

“Quite,” Aziraphale said once he'd enjoyed his second mouthful. His mind went immediately to Agnes. He motioned with his fork. “Please try a bit,” he offered. 

“So tell me.” Crowley unexpectedly reached to swipe his index finger in the icing. Aziraphale followed it until it reached it's destination, his eyes drawn like a magnet to Crowley's mouth. Crowley touched the sweet dollop to the tip of his tongue and slid his finger between parted lips to trap softly with his teeth. He kept his eyes glued to Aziraphale's throughout and closed plush lips over it before drawing it out slowly, a sinful curl to his growing smile when Aziraphale made a small noise he was unable to keep back. 

“That is entirely unfair, you cad,” Aziraphale scolded breathlessly, but he internally cheered at how Crowley had lost all trace of his previous melancholy in favor of this playfulness. 

“You walked into that one,” he said, his face gone sly. “Tell me one of your secrets. One of your desires.” His voice dropped to barely a whisper. “Come on, angel. I'm willing to bet you've got something just aching at your lips.” 

His weighted stare struck Aziraphale dumb a brief second, and then he found himself tugged forward by those enigmatic amber eyes, a non-characteristic slackening of his straight-backed posture. “Alright, yes, a secret,” he said in a quiet voice. Crowley leaned further in anticipation with a salacious expression. “I know more than you'd think about astrology too.” 

Aziraphale's heart skittered with his little admission. He grinned, but his nervous excitement drained away as Crowley sat back into his chair looking a little stunned, a funny smile on his face. 

“You consistently surprise me,” he said in astonishment. His voice warmed with fondness.

Once he reassessed Crowley's recent body language, Aziraphale's lips parted with realization. He was so moronically obtuse. “You were flirting,” he blurted and then wished he'd kept that insight silent. What a dunce he could be! He gestured back and forth between he and Crowley, who's expression had slipped into fascination. “I'm not enormously practiced at this,” he fumbled to explain. Humiliating. He covered up by taking several consecutive bites of his dessert. 

Crowley grinned. He seemed far too delighted. “No, no, lets go back to that. Please please please tell me why someone as clever as you seem to be would get into astrology, horoscopes and all that? When you look at-” he pointed toward the ceiling, drawing a shape in the air with his finger- “Virgo, do you see the double star nature of Spica- Alpha Virginis- orbiting each other so closely only a spectroscope can tease apart their duality or,” he threw his head back and with exaggerated aloofness said, “The planet Mars has run off with Jupiter on the cusp of the eighteenth house, Virgo! It means a complete and utter wanker will spill their drink upon your best shirt. Be aware and avoid all Pisces today!”

Aziraphale smothered a giggle and relaxed back into his chair as much as he ever allowed himself. If he tread carefully... “It helped me get through some hard times. It was a passing fancy as a child, but after my crash, gave me something to focus on.” He skimmed his fork over the remainder of the cake and pushed the dish aside after mourning the final crumbs. “One of my dearest friends has been into all sorts of things since we were children. I found predictions and prophecies so interesting. There's whole fields of it.”

“Okay. But I've got to ask because it's been driving me nuts for years. You cannot tell me because one planet's visible in one quadrant of the sky it suddenly means you're going to have a bad day. It's not even like you have a choice, like you can choose not to walk under a ladder and court bad luck. ”

“Oh no, there's so much choice!” Aziraphale said, growing excited and forgetting his misreading of Crowley's earlier flirtation. He gestured with the nearly empty wine glass he'd snatched from the table in his enthusiasm. Crowley topped it off with the bottle left tableside, bemused.

“You read your horoscope, it's neutral. It's up to the person on whether they're going to interpret that information to use positively or negatively.” 

Crowley's eyes narrowed as he appeared to consider. “Hang on,” he said, one eyebrow arching in doubtfulness. “You can't say something as vague as 'a man in a hat will approach you with intent today' means the same to everyone that's a Libra – that's my sign, by the way. No one starts their day at the same point with the same situation!” His gestures grew wider as his argument gelled. “So if I have a bad morning, I'm avoiding some horrible gossip that's going round over me, I'm going to spend all day anticipating something awful from every man in a hat. To the point I've got to put them off somehow.”

He pointed at Aziraphale, now with a playful smirk, “ _You_ have a great morning, so you've got nothing to worry about. The first man in a hat you run into you're calling out a 'good morning' to him because you've come from a happier place.” He folded his arms and appeared pleased with his interpretation. 

“Ah, but it doesn't have to be that way. You can have your bad morning and be awaiting an uncomfortable confrontation and still wish everyone in a hat a good day and spread cheer. And that might bring you a good response and it might get you the awful thing you've been worrying about. I might be kind to someone who'll turn 'round and be a homophobe. But in the end, you still chose the kinder option even in adversity or the potential for adversity.” 

“There's too many unknowns! Even with your horoscope, there's no astrological plan! We're all clueless. That's ridiculous.” 

“No, it's ineffable.” Aziraphale sipped his wine, content with his full belly and his company. Crowley seemed cheered now, much less stressed, and their conversation flowed easy. 

“You are something else, Aziraphale,” Crowley said after a moment where he seemed to be considering Aziraphale from across the table. “I've never met anyone like you before.” 

Aziraphale felt himself nearly glow under Crowley's admiration. “Well that's a relief because if you've read Anathema's magazine articles she's written on clones, you'd be worried too.” 

They spoke longer, an engaging discussion on the best spots near London for stargazing until Aziraphale had polished off a bit more of the wine. The waiter brought the check in a leather folder. Aziraphale observed as Crowley never even bothered looking at it before sliding his card within. 

“Thank you, Crowley.” Aziraphale had nearly canceled earlier from anxiousness. He was so relieved he didn't, hadn't pruned this potential connection from his life as he tended with new people who strongly affected him. 

“I like it here. You just provided an excuse.” He looked everywhere but at Aziraphale as he downplayed their dinner, his flushing cheeks a betrayal. “They're pretty good at keeping the paps out.” 

“Paps?” 

Crowley paused in adjusting his jacket as he stood. “Papparazi.”

“Oh you'd mentioned.” The memory of crowds flocking his shop that week made him shiver with distaste. That was just blowback from Crowley's visit. He dealt with it everyday? 

“Gossip bloggers. That lot. There's places you go when you want to be seen. Put on a show. I usually have to make an appearance or my manager gets on my back.” His forehead wrinkled up and he scrunched his nose, but he nodded in acknowledgment with a vague smile when the waiter returned the billfold. 

“You don't like it,” Aziraphale surmised. 

“Eh.” Crowley headed for the door, his hands stuffed into his pockets. He paused to wait for Aziraphale to catch up. “Sometimes. Sometimes it's a blast. I'd never take the boys there. Lucifer and Warlock's mother agree with me on that one at least. I'd never take you to a place like that.” 

Aziraphale wondered if he meant Aziraphale's company was unsuitable for Crowley's approved public image. It didn't matter in the end; Aziraphale still enjoyed their dinner together, date or not-date.

He walked aside Crowley to the valet's post. The combination of wine and the chemistry he sensed between them set his swirling feelings alight. Crowley's relaxed swaggering stride kept drawing Aziraphale's eyes to his hips. He followed along the lines of Crowley's jacket, the lean, wiry strength just hidden beneath the cloth of his suit, and came to rest on the curve of neck beneath his jaw. The smooth skin there hidden in shadow wanted for a soft pair of lips, Aziraphale mused. 

Crowley had to know Aziraphale was staring. His mild, impersonal smile he'd used on the valet melted into a smug thing that only emphasized the sharp cut of his high cheekbones. Rather than shy away, Aziraphale allowed himself to look, even with Crowley's knowledge. 

“I had a lovely time,” he said once he'd settled in the passenger seat with less nervousness than earlier. Crowley leaned back and rested the heel of one hand on the steering wheel. 

“Am I forgiven?” Crowley's grin hadn't flagged. Aziraphale was starting to recognize this particular expression meant 'unbearably pleased with himself.'

“It is to be determined,” Aziraphale said, matching the playfulness of his tone. “As of yesterday, your admirers had thinned out but not disappeared.” 

Crowley only chuckled and drove back to the bookshop, both quiet with their thoughts. 

They pulled along the curb and before Aziraphale could figure out the door release again, Crowley had hopped out to circle and open his door for him. Aziraphale found it heartstoppingly romantic until Crowley held out an elbow for him to take. 

He hesitated. Did he seem clumsy-footed or unstable? Oh god, he thought with growing horror, what if he had it all wrong and Crowley pitied him, was being chivalrous because he was truly a gentleman and wanted to guide the poor, brain-injured addled old fool to the door. Crowley was likely so used to admiring gazes. Aziraphale's was just one of many. 

“I _am_ safe in this neighborhood,” Aziraphale said lightly as he took the offered elbow.

Crowley shifted his arm inward to draw Aziraphale closer. “You're a little old fashioned.” His voice was gentle, seductive. Aziraphale could swear he felt heat everywhere they brushed. “Thought I'd see you to the door.” He turned as they neared the shop, the admiration obvious on his handsome face.

_CAREFUL!_ Aziraphale's head screeched to his heart in a panic. 

Crowley's voice dropped to a murmur that had Aziraphale nearly stretching on his toes to hear. “Thought if you saw I could be a gentleman, you might go out with me again. Fully aware you're on a date,” he teased, though it was edged with longing. 

Aziraphale blushed instantly. So Crowley had sensed his uncertainty and _still_ seemed interested. Aziraphale's only excuse was that he hadn't dated in _ages._ How was he to know? His last few liaisons were brief flares of attraction leading to heated nights of lovemaking. No dating necessary. His only real relationship was years ago and a comedy of errors exposing all his flaws. 

“So. Uh. What do you say?” Crowley watched him, now biting at his lower lip only to release it when it seemed he became aware of it. “I can't text you and ask.” 

“Too much bother, mobile phones,” he said without thought. He still clung to Crowley's elbow. He shivered. The man was just gloriously tall, wasn't he? It nearly weakened his knees. He couldn't hold his gaze long and kept needing to glance away only to be drawn immediately back. 

“Caller ID?” Crowley asked, his words gone husky. And he'd certainly caught wind of something, because he turned inward so Aziraphale was now positioned before him, nearly toe to toe. 

Aziraphale swallowed. He had to tip his chin upward sharply to meet Crowley's heavily lidded eyes. Crowley's free hand landed just above Aziraphale's elbow, his spread palm and long fingers generous enough to wrap around a good portion of the thickness of his arm. “Goodness no,” he said, suddenly breathless. “Why would I need it?”

Crowley hummed in his chest, a rumbling Aziraphale swore he felt. “Voicemail?” His other arm pulled free from where Aziraphale was surprised to find himself still clutching. It mirrored the first, and now Aziraphale's heart seemed lodged in his throat. In spite of Crowley's lanky height and slender, angular build, Aziraphale felt cocooned within Crowley's hands, blanketed with both his scent and warmth. 

“Answerphone,” he thought he said, he wasn't certain, he couldn't even form cohesive thought with Crowley's head tipped downward, so tall and elegant, hair haloing his head like fire as strands slipped from his bun, amber eyes keen. Crowley's lips were curled in satisfaction; Aziraphale knew this because he'd been unable to resist flicking his eyes to them over and over. “And I have email.” He wasn't aware if he spoke that aloud either, so caught up with his newfound and intoxicating longing to pin down this clever, stunning man with his own short stockiness and crawl up the rangy length of him. 

“So book angel,” he murmured low and sultry, and oh did that voice make Aziraphale's insides quiver, and now he was anticipating something, anything. Waiting. “If I sent you an email asking you on another date?” 

Aziraphale threw caution to the wind and ignored the frenzy of doubting voices in his mind. “I would likely respond yes.”

Crowley's eyes flashed with triumph, his hands briefly squeezing where they still gripped possessively. 

Aziraphale's breath stuttered. _Waiting_ , he was waiting on _something_ he couldn't put to words, just waiting as Crowley gazed at him relentlessly, holding his arms secure. 

And then Crowley stepped back. His hands slid away, brushing down over the fabric upon Aziraphale's forearms and scorching skin where they trailed over the back of Aziraphale's hands, his knuckles, his fingers.

“I'll be in touch once N.Y. is over,” he said confusingly, then spun on his heel to return to his car, hips swaying hypnotically. He peeked back over just as he opened the driver-side door and ducked in. 

Aziraphale had never felt more Edwardian than this moment, as he followed Crowley's retreat with an eagerness in his eyes and passion within his veins. He greedily hoarded away their brief touches. He'd thought- well, he hadn't actually been thinking, had he? He would have kissed him, opened up to Crowley shamelessly, he was that discombobulated. In fact, he mused as he watched the tail lights of the Bentley pull away, he felt reluctantly grateful Crowley hadn't initiated anything yet. He knew the moment Crowley ignited that wick, he'd not be able to stop himself. 

It would hurt when Crowley drifted back to his flashy, upscale lifestyle, bored of a humble bookseller and frustrated over the secrets and lies Aziraphale required to disguise Agnes Nutter's origins. Delaying that heartache by moving slowly seemed a good option. 

He unlocked his shop on autopilot and carefully removed his overcoat- the wool blend coat Crowley had dug his fingertips into as if _he_ was the one worried Aziraphale might bolt. Once that was taken care of, he dwelled on their conversation over horoscopes and using their guidance for negatives and positives. Optimism and pessimism. What'd his own handcrafted horoscope say for Sun in Leo? _You and a love interest may well discover new heights to your relationship through trying out something different together._

He settled onto his sofa and flushed at the thought of _heights_ and his unexpected reactions to Crowley's own in comparison to his. “ _That_ wasn't what I had in mind when I wrote it,” he said into space. But he'd been vague with 'trying something different together' as well. Maybe Crowley wouldn't bore of Aziraphale after all. Perhaps the difference here for Aziraphale would be pushing though his own worries for once and ignoring the voices warning him away. 

He spotted the rope he'd been practicing his knots with earlier in his stress. After the accident, he could barely hold two pieces within his fingers, not that he knew more than how to tie his own shoes and perhaps a windsor on a necktie in the first place. Slow and steady, he'd regained dexterity and surpassed anything he'd ever known. 

Slow and steady. And hopeful. Whether that was enough to dive into an extended liaison or- dare he hope- relationship with a world-famous supermodel, he had no clue. But thinking on Crowley's unsubtle and undeniable interest, he could hope and wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unsure of when the next chapter will be up since I've been advised to blend the next two together. Also, I rotate shifts at work and I have the AM shift coming up (that is 3 AM to bake bread and donuts and crap lasfkjs;dfjs;jsdf), which throws off my schedule. But it also keeps me safe away from customers since we aren't open until 8 these days.
> 
> horoscope for Leo within the chapter was written in November but I never wrote down the location to give it proper credit. Probably cafe astrology, but it's uncertain. 
> 
> The cake I fed Aziraphale is something we offered in the bakery section at work over summer and yes, it was that damn good. And no, I didn't make it, I'm the bread and donut human. Can I get a wahoo.


	14. Perhaps

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank y'all for sticking with me and reading along on this self-indulgent adventure. I appreciate the comments and kudos and the knowledge others are having fun with this silliness. 
> 
> My Beta wanted me to rename this chapter Az-emo-phale. 
> 
> Going through editing has been a little weird because this story spans a fictional take from Feb 2019 to around April 2020. Clearly, 2020 is going to look different in my pretend world than reality!
> 
> some early notes: I have no clue what the little square shelf thingies are called in a secretary desk and could not find that information anywhere. There are henceforth called cubbies here. Aziraphale's vintage typewriter is a Corona, which seems in poor-taste right now, but I did write this chapter in November before COVID19 was our lives.

*

_Pisces- You have a calling, and signs are emerging around you that reinforce that fact. People are giving you feedback that is genuine. They're not just praising you for their health! Have faith in yourself and understand that you're capable of amazing things. The worst mistake you could make today is to limit yourself. This applies to new relationships, career challenges, and even business opportunities. Act on your ideas and climb out of your shell._

*

Aziraphale floated upon blissful clouds the first forty-eight hours. With renewed energy on Sunday, he typed out another few chapters of his next book for Anathema's publishing house. He completed a full week of terribly optimistic horoscopes for the entire breadth of the zodiac. He checked his e-mail too many times that day and Monday. Silly of him, he chided; Crowley would be busy with his boys and likely work. His dilapidated computer clunked along, taking it's time to retrieve a spat of useful emails nestled within the spam bombarding AZFellBooks @ AOL.com. None of them were from Crowley. 

Understandable, Aziraphale mused as he deleted countless messages touting their ability to enhance his penis by _this much_. He filled his time with inventory and a quick visit to an auction mid-week. Newt dropped by Wednesday to collect his pages and chat over Anathema's plans. By Thursday, he'd refreshed his email more than he'd care to admit. 

Nothing. 

“You're being a bit silly.” Aziraphale powered down his computer that evening and leaned back into his desk chair. He was never one for discouraged wallowing. Crowley hadn't said it'd be right away, had he? And perhaps as a supermodel, he was excessively busy. He recalled Crowley's eager and quickly shut-down expression of longing over the idea of bucking the image his agency preferred. Something twisted deep and aching within Aziraphale's chest.

He thought he'd spend his idle time reliving each beat of every unexpectedly charged moment between them. Recalling every scant touch until they were imprinted beyond his shoddy short term memory. Curiously though, his most cherished interaction of their dinner wasn't their lingering parting, but rather the pure and utter need apparent in Crowley's pleading amber eyes over the simple innocence of wanting permission to be himself. 

It made Aziraphale want to do entirely ludicrous things for him. To storm the offices of the modeling agency boldly in righteousness. Demand they allow Crowley to fulfill his dreams like some white knight, even if it meant never seeing him again. As long as he could be happy. 

Ridiculous romanticism. And it'd only been _five days_ since their time together. The passage of only a fortnight since Crowley'd first passed through his doors and flipped his life upside-down, Aziraphale realized. 

He wandered his shop aimlessly and finally settled on prepping a mugful of hot cocoa to soothe his nerves. Perhaps it was a bother to access e-mail for someone as time-strapped as Crowley? He _had_ answered a few texts from his son at dinner. One he'd even shared with Aziraphale, a drawing Adam created of stick figures in crayon he couldn't comprehend but made Crowley blush fetchingly upon sharing it. No messages from Crowley appeared on his shop Ansaphone, only a handful of calls from prospective buyers. Answering the line with hopeful expectation of it being Crowley only led to disappointment.

Would he have texted Aziraphale? If Aziraphale were comfortable enough to own a mobile phone? No. No, he shouldn't slide into a spiral of guilt so readily over his ways. It wouldn't do to rush headlong into changes, even for someone as beguiling as Crowley. 

He pulled a short length of rope from a wadded-up ball stuffed into one of the cubbieholes of his secretary desk and idly scanned his hand-written notes for discrepancies in astrological calculation while practicing his knots. Tomorrow he'd type that out- wait. No. He had to replenish the ink ribbon in his vintage Corona typewriter, a frustrating endeavor. He stilled and considered his computer. Maybe Newt was right; it was too old. He couldn't download images even if he liked. Perhaps a new one wouldn't be as shocking as he once thought. Perhaps he could type up his book pages as suggested on a word processing program with it's much easier ability to erase error. Perhaps he could search for Anthony Crowley, Supermodel and see what the dear boy had been up to this week. Perhaps. 

By Sunday, Aziraphale pulled at the loosened thread of dismay so often a gaping hole appeared in his woven shroud of cheer. He examined his reflection before stepping out for his morning visit to the bakery. Smart, casual Sunday wear, suitable for a drizzly February morning. Pale hair, soft curls defying any style he might wrangle them within and thick enough to disguise the nine centimeter scar spread across his scalp. He slid off his wire-frames, barely sturdy enough to hold the thick lenses. Pale eyes, visible bags beneath aging him beyond his thirty-four years. He'd aged a decade within a span of two short years long-ago. 

It was a grand miracle he lived. But he wondered now, fifteen years later, if he honored that gift of survival by actually _living_ instead of hiding behind Agnes. 

“No more of this pitying yourself. Off you go,” he said to his reflection before making his way to _Sweet Treat_ for a regular order. The cashier smiled brightly at him in greeting and laughed as she handed back his change. 

“Who knew you had such interesting friends, Mr. Fell!” She grinned at him from near the espresso machine while crafting his mocha. 

“Er. What?” He looked up, distracted from his perusal of the baked goods on offer. 

“The Demon?” She placed his drink order before him and waited, poised over the assorted goods as he deliberated. “I saw the photo of you two going 'round and only wished I'd've been here that day. Bring him in again, oh please!” 

His ears warmed. “Oh, we're really just...” he trailed off, unsure of what to say. How even to explain. “I'll do so if possible, dear girl, but for now, the berry tart, please.” 

Monday brought on his semi-regular manicurist appointment. He paused in passing a bus shelter advert featuring Crowley and a second model he didn't recognize canoodling sensually beneath a waterfall behind strategically placed tropical leaves in a jungle setting. The second model embraced Crowley from behind, tastefully obscuring most of her bared breasts as she mouthed at his neck, her long blonde hair flowing over Crowley's shoulder to adhere wet to Crowley's chest and trim abdomen. His own ginger hair bunched soaked and debauched with her hand knotted into the thick locks. Crowley's wicked smile and devilish stare toward the camera snagged the viewers' attention. Aziraphale moved onward, the image dueling with the bittersweet one he had of Crowley pressed near in the dark of his Bentley, eyes concerned and tender fingers wiping away Aziraphale's tears. He had no idea what they meant to encourage him to purchase. He'd only want Crowley anyhow. 

Crowley must have just been kind that Saturday. Sincere in person, but Aziraphale might be easily shuffled to a lesser priority once Crowley returned to his usual environment. It didn't make him a bad person. It didn't mean Aziraphale was easily forgotten in general or that he'd misread Crowley's expression or misinterpreted his flirtatious touches. Aziraphale was just... unremarkable. 

Tuesday, he left his shop closed and ensconced himself at his typewriter, mildly distracted but able to focus on his book. Various antique works on astrology, star charts, and detailed assessments of the twelve houses were scattered about near his elbows while tea steeped within reach. That morning, he'd checked his telephone messages- nothing. His poor computer was likely shocked to endure booting up daily at this rate. It usually sat dormant until summoned into usage on the weekend, but the frequent checking revealed merely junkmail. Nearly a week and a half had passed in silence. Even someone as comfortable moving slowly as Aziraphale could see the writing on the wall. 

Still. 

He'd enjoyed his time with Crowley well beyond any physical pleasure from being in his company. They were ships passing in the night, Aziraphale told himself early Wednesday after the disappointment from that morning's e-mail check waned. It's how it was always meant to end, he consoled after lunch, unable to concentrate on the book in hand. By evening, he fancied himself a much lesser Gregory Peck as reporter Joe Bradley to Crowley's Princess Ann of _Roman Holiday_ , two distinct worlds only meeting sweetly for a brief time before an inevitable parting. 

Late Wednesday evening, with Agnes Nutter's forecast by house for the following week stacked up at his table before him and the warm lamplight blending with the cold, scant moonlight filtering in by window, he made some peace with it all.

He breathed in deeply and exhaled out his frustrations across his notes. Letting go. He hoped Crowley would get a chance at his stars. Crowley said he was a Libra. Aziraphale consulted a page revealed by his released puff of air. There'd be a super full moon in Libra peaking at 1:42 GMT at 0 degrees 08' March 21st. It was more than a month away. He might never see it, but Aziraphale pulled together scraps of notes anyway to cast a general horoscope with Crowley in mind. 

_You might have a strong need for balance and harmony now. You probably desire to keep things "nice" rather than venturing into fundamental questions in order not to disturb the peace. You must learn to share your good and bad feelings. Do not be afraid to be who you really are, despite what is expected of you._

It comforted something unsettled within his heart. 

He met Newt and Anathema the following evening in his flat above the bookshop. Cramped but satisfied in the small dining space, he helped himself to the takeout Thai they'd brought to share. 

“What if you knocked down that wall?” Newt patted the brickwork behind him from his seat at Aziraphale's beaten but sturdy wood table. 

Aziraphale shook his head in the negative until he finished chewing. “That's the oculus of the bookshop beyond that wall. It's historical.” He peered around his tiny flat and back at Newt, who rarely ever seemed rattled and Anathema, who tended toward an even-keel peppered with outbursts of emotion. Such dear friends he'd made. How tolerant they were of his drama. The massaman curry he'd ordered tasted of ash on his tongue. 

“It's tight, but honestly, it's usually just me. And by the looks of things, it'll always just be me.” 

Anathema wore a pale emerald silk scarf atop her brunette waves of hair which fluttered when she snapped her attention toward him. “ _That_ does not sound like the Aziraphale who wrote those incredibly cheerful horoscopes only last week,” she said pointedly. 

“Do you recall how I mentioned my encounter with Anthony Crowley the Saturday before last?” Aziraphale didn't meet her eyes and poked at a chopped peanut with his finger so it scooted around the table. 

“I remember the three phone calls beforehand because you needed my opinion on what you should wear before putting on the same thing you always do.” Anathema's teasing grin was familiar ground. Comfortable. 

“Yes, thank you for that reminder of my ineptitude,” he snarked, happier. He really did have fabulous friends, didn't he? He might be able to finish his dish after all. “Once he brought me home, he said he'd either call or e-mail me again.”

Newt had silently enjoyed his meal during all this but cut to the chase. “And you haven't heard from him.”

“Um. No.” 

Anathema closed her eyes briefly and reopened them, her expression thoughtful. “He might've ghosted you. He could've been just toying with your feelings by the end. Or it's slipped his mind. Maybe he meant it to be a one-off,” she added, practical but not unkindly upon seeing his frown. “Write it off as an extraordinary experience, Aziraphale. You've already had something people dream of.”

Aziraphale's heart ached with the candid realism of her words. “It very well might be,” he admitted, allowing the hope buried his heart to slip away further. 

“Big celebrity supermodel takes you out to dinner?” she went on. “Picks you up from your home, understands your reluctance with being in a vehicle? You said you had a lovely time the other day when we spoke. I'm already fond of how he was able to drag you away from your hobbit hole on any sort of outing, frankly. Why not let it be?” 

“When you put it like that,” Aziraphale mused. Perhaps there would've been a chance if Crowley were only the student and art class model, as if someone as bright a star as Crowley could _only_ be anything. Or if he himself had still been the academic and competitive fencer rather than a haphazardly reconnected mass of neurons. “What if he was put off by-” he swirled his finger by his temple to indicate the ham-stringed nature of his brain.

Both Anathema and Newt vehemently objected at the same time. 

“No. Are you kidding, Aziraphale?” Anathema tipped her head to the side as she tended when going soft. “I'm positive he was sincere in wanting to apologize for bringing you traffic. He was probably stunned to have someone unhappy about receiving the bounty of his social media clout.”

“He could have just said, whoops, sorry.” Newt began clearing his spot to declutter the small table. “He found time on a Saturday night to spend with you when I presume that sort gets up to no good usually.”

This Aziraphale did find soothing. The little glowing core of faith within failed to wane. Crowley hadn't needed to invite him out. Didn't need to share intimate details with him. Crowley's appealing bashfulness upon being complimented for his intelligence sat prominent in Aziraphale's mind, as did his bewildered admittance to buying into the unsavory things said about him that whittled his existence down to his sex-appeal. 

“And he was married to what's his name, the blond kid from that popular _Nine Circles_ drama series who went on to be a model-”

“Lucifer DeVil,” Aziraphale said dully. 

Newt snapped his finger. “Yup. That one. Your Demon is probably used to a whole different world than we plebes.” 

Anathema finished clearing the table, including Aziraphale's long forgotten cold curry. “I'm sorry. Newt's right. Realistically, It's a whole other world. None of us can compete in that circuit of beauty. I've got it on good authority it's alien DNA hidden in their genetic code,” she added, lowering her voice as if someone might hear. 

Newt reached for her hand and drew her near. “You're that pretty, “ he soothed and kissed her with a quick peck on the lips. 

Anathema giggled in a way Aziraphale didn't hear from her often. His heart softened when she smiled so fully her eyes creased at the corners as if unable to contain her joy. He'd thought once they'd grow old and single together. Instead, he watched with happiness as Newt became more involved in their lives, as he joined Anathema on her adventures to prove or disprove theories, both sending postcards from their travels to their less inclined friend at home. Newt became an unshakable font of support to Anathema and a good friend of Aziraphale's. Aziraphale hadn't realized how much he missed a group of true friends until his reluctance and fear had driven all his old schoolmates and any lovers of his own away. 

“Crowley. For all the attention he must receive. He seemed... almost like he needed a friend.” Aziraphale hadn't realize he said it aloud until both Anathema's and Newt's eyes focused on his. 

“That sounds lonely.” Anathema's eyes went a little sad. 

“And honestly,” Aziraphale plowed on, a bit embarrassed at not keeping his thoughts on Crowley to himself. “I mean-,” he waved a hand in a fluttering motion from the side of his double chin downward and laughed somewhat bitterly. “I didn't think really, that _this_ could interest a supermodel.” He became swamped with so much guilt upon speaking this fear aloud he nearly didn't feel it when Anathema smacked him upon the elbow. Crowley had _not once_ seemed put off by his much shorter height or current heft, nor his sartorial choices. 

“Nope, two ups for one down.” Anathema's eyes were narrowed at him. Newt appeared pleased he was not in her cross-hairs for once. 

“Oh my dear girl, you know I am completely satisfied on my appearance. Perhaps I could ease up on a dessert or two,” he paused and couldn't suppress a an amused huff when Anathema playfully raised a rolled up magazine from her own publishing house. “But I am very aware I have a few quirks I've developed since the crash. And I've always had my own ways.” He looked between his two friends, both listening to him with understanding. 

He was... fine. Whatever happened, whether Crowley or someone new was meant for his story, he really and truly was fine. He smiled sincerely and from his heart for the first time in at least a week. He was both Aziraphale Fell and Agnes Nutter. That'd be good enough for now. 

“I'm comfortable with myself. Why must I change just to satisfy some flashy, pop-culture narrative on what a thirtysomething openly gay man should be? No. I'm... I'm content as is.”

Anathema reached forward to pat his hand and nudged Newt with a quick, “Fetch the biscuits and the dessert wine, please?” She dug through her bag to pull out her phone, grumbling a little over GPS tracking by 'the man'. “Let's see then, Aziraphale.” She scooted closer to his side and tapped some colorful icons on the screen. When he realized she'd typed in 'the Demon Crowley' in a search box, he exhaled a slow, apprehensive breath. 

“We don't need to-” he began, then cut himself short. Hadn't he been doing just this for a good week now without success?

“His instagram's busy. Photo of him in a big ol' knit jumper though with just the caption, 'warm in my authentic Fair Isle' on it. That's an unusual look for him.”

Aziraphale forgot any misgivings he might've held onto in order to study the photo. Oh. Oh my. The phone conversation they'd shared that day flared prominent in his mind. “He had a photoshoot on the river that day while barely clothed,” he said softly. “He was chilled.” He caught her sharp glance at the corner of his vision but kept his eyes on the image of Crowley bundled and appearing exceedingly comfortable snuggled in oversized knitwear, lips barely curling in a dreamy smile so different than the advert he'd seen of him earlier in the week. 

“Oh here's some gossip. He's been on the other side of the pond, looks as though he's been in New York.” 

New York. Aziraphale strained his memory. Crowley's hands gripping his arms. Crowley's fingers a seared brand upon his own. Crowley tall and lithe but voice low and husky, appearing momentarily as if he'd like to eat Aziraphale alive before stepping back with a salacious glint in his eyes. 

“You alright there?” Newt asked with humor. Aziraphale looked down to see he'd pulled Anathema's mobile right from her hands and was gripping it tightly. His skin flared hot, and he nearly dropped it. 

“I'm terribly sorry!” he gasped out, mortified. Anathema had known him far too long. She retrieved her phone with a knowing grin. 

Newt watched with an amused half-smile. “There you go. Some sort of work commitment's kept him busy.” He twisted the cork from the ruby port they'd brought along to Aziraphale's and poured them each a glass after allowing it to breathe. 

“Perhaps,” he said, still simmering with the sort of embarrassment one feels when surrounded by trusted people who knew and loved you without exception even as they teased. Buried in those very affecting memories though was something... “N.Y. He said he'd contact me after N.Y.” His heart skipped a few startled beats. Perhaps it wasn't a hopeless shot after all. He sipped at the velvety smooth port once he'd nodded a thanks to Newt. 

“He's in a lot these recent search photos with Lucifer all over him, Aziraphale,” Anathema said, her voice gentling from it's previous humor, kind but wary. She continued to scroll, the look on her face shifting with curiosity. “But also with a few others, and quite a bit with this gorgeous- oh, that's another model, Uriel Asante.” She scrolled further and Aziraphale couldn't help leaning to peer over her shoulder again. “Actually, I think these are all events or something because this one is a serious runway photo. And some of these are skilled photographs, not gossip mongers.”

She turned the images further toward Aziraphale. One of Crowley in a striking suit flanked by Lucifer and a much shorter, handsome gentleman with bizarrely violet eyes. Crowley alone in a black and white professional shot, head tipped back in laughter and clad in a slinky, slit-thigh dark gown and shiny black boots that skimmed his leg upward well above his knee. A runway photo in eclectic designer fashion captioned: _'The Demon' Anthony Crowley no longer missing from a slick runway display as he walks in agender fashion for Pierre Davis' debut Fall2019 collection, the brand NO SESSO. Davis is the first transgender designer to present a collection at New York Fashion Week._

“What is New York Fashion Week?” Aziraphale scrolled further while Anathema looked on, bemused. It seemed a large, fussy doing to Aziraphale. His knowledge over the fashion world was near non-existent. Had Crowley assumed he'd understand?

Newt peeked over Anathema's other shoulder. She surrendered the mobile with a snort of exasperation and slid away from between them. Aziraphale and Newt mindlessly closed the gap to study the runway images. “Someone dresses the models up. Then they walk on a stage for everyone to stare at, I think. Looks like there's parties in between.”

“It takes over a week?” Aziraphale noted some photos where Crowley appeared to be only an audience member, albeit front row and accompanied by some of the others from previous images. His photographed outfits did seem to comprise more than a few days worth of outfits. 

“It's a lot of someones?”

“Don't even get me started about the tragic conspiracies involved within the fashion industry!” Anathema looked fit to burst. 

“What's one then?” Newt asked, honest with his interest. His attention went to her immediately, and Aziraphale nearly sighed over the sweetness of it all. To have a lover understand your oddities, to embrace them. Even more so to adore you _for_ your curiosities rather than in spite of them. He'd never experienced such a thing beyond his friendship with Anathema; he wondered if he ever would. When he shook away his fanciful thoughts to take in Anathema's rant, she was midway in a speech, her silk hairscarf gone missing and her cheeks bright with excitement. 

“So you see, if Choupette Lagerfeld _is_ a Jupiter Ganymedian hiding on earth in the guise of a cat in some sort of alien witness protection, Karl Lagerfeld's life could be in danger. My grandmother was never wrong, and she swore this secret to me on her deathbed several years ago.” She collected her mobile from Aziraphale and stuffed a chocolate biscuit in her mouth as a conclusion. 

“Very interesting,” Aziraphale commented. “Who knew?” 

Newt leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. “Every organization has it's witches to hunt, even aliens from Jupiter.” He turned to Aziraphale, lips curled into an easy smile. “So I think we solved your problem. He's going to contact you after whatever that is.” He glanced at Aziraphale a little more seriously once he reached for a small sip from his glass. “Aziraphale, I know you say you don't trust your gut instincts because you think you have a tendency to overprotect yourself.”

“True.” Aziraphale hid behind a biscuit he'd selected from the tin on the table between them. 

“I think it's okay for you to start trusting yourself. It's worth the risk sometimes.” He turned to look over at Anathema, who was watching Aziraphale with concern and love. “I took a big risk. Look where I am now.” 

Hope arose within Aziraphale's chest and beat down at his anxiety. Trust. He needed to learn to trust. Crowley could have just dropped him off with a wicked smile and wave goodbye. Instead, he'd made sure to make an impression. It'd been such a short time and yet Crowley already had him considering shoving at boundaries he'd erected long ago. “Might I see those photos again?” he asked without shame. 

“If only you had your own,” Anathema said, lightly scolding, but she surrendered her mobile again with Crowley's images conveniently already requested in the search bar. 

“Perhaps one day.” The words came out as a mumble with most his focus on Crowley standing in a breathtaking dark tuxedo with red trimmings, an arm hooked at the elbow of a tall, exquisitely gowned woman with hair clipped close to her head. A magnificent headpiece settled eye-catchingly against the warm brown of her skin in colors that paired with Crowley's. 

“And speaking of fashion,” Anathema said suddenly, startling Aziraphale from his content daze. 

“Were we?” he and Newt said at the same time. He caught Newt's eye and stuffed down a giggle. 

Anathema shotgunned the remainder of her dessert wine and shook her head at them. “Have I told you I had some interest from a representative of the artist Dagon?” 

“Do I know who that is?” Aziraphale scoured his mind for a reference. 

Newt raised an eyebrow. “She does a lot of artsy photography I guess.”

“Oh both of you. You were even _there_ , Newton Pulsifer!” She pointed at him; Aziraphale was pleased to not be her target this time. “Very famous photographer and oil painting artist. She's working with some fashion designer on a whole bunch of outfits. Probably like the fashion week thing. She's considering an accompanying thematic photoshoot on the confluence of astrology and astronomy. I have no idea, it sounded very artsy and fun. Since my expert,” she poked at Aziraphale's forearm, “is a recluse, I'm the next best thing on offer, she says.” 

Aziraphale beamed at her, proud. “How exciting! I have no idea who Dagon is, but I'm happy for you. You simply must email me if you need a hand. Not one in person, of course,” he added quickly. 

“I will. I don't know if it'll follow through since it was a brief inquiry, but consultation is a option I never considered before. You look better, by the way,” she added. 

He sipped at his wine while considering. He felt better. Whether it was good friends or the peace he'd made within himself, he was content. He might only see Crowley from a distance again, Aziraphale just a small speck gazing up at one bright star within the vast universe. Crowley might wander into his shop tomorrow. It'd be... it'd be okay. 

“I am. Shall we go letterboxing this weekend then, since it appears we'll all be unoccupied?” 

Newt leaned forward at the table. “It's been a while, hasn't it for that and geocaching. I've got nothing on, right Anathema?”

“Oh wow, yeah. My last stamp is from that day we were wandering around Regent's, remember? Newt, you got the geese all angry.”

“Now I do need a bit more after that reminder,” Newt admitted while holding out his glass. 

Aziraphale looked upon his friends, finally at ease after days of anticipatory tension. He wondered if there was any chance a world-famous supermodel could slot into his life as it existed. Imagined Crowley joining them at the table, perhaps slinging an arm around him as Anathema detailed her latest conspiracy theory. Would Crowley watch him with adoration in his eyes as Newt so unabashedly did so over Anathema? Might he lean into his shoulder, uncaring or even fond of his much shorter stature and plump build? Perhaps even tolerant of his peculiarities? 

And then there was Agnes. Always Agnes. Could he finally, irrevocably share his secret of Agnes with another soul beyond Newt and Anathema? Could he trust enough to allow Crowley that deep into himself? 

Perhaps. But he was still so very unsure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Scattered notes:
> 
> 2019 NYFW for fall/winter was Feb 6-13.
> 
> Agender fashion is not new but is controversial for fashion week shows. It tends to not be as frequent at official shows listed at the big 4 (NY, London, Milan, Paris). Entire collections tended to be mocked in the past. Crowley in this story will show both agender fashion and blended binary fashion. Some people in the industry apparently get very upset over fussing with menswear and woman's wear categories. 
> 
> I added Crowley as a runway model to the following show even though more of his work is either editorial (high fashion) or commercial, but celebrity commercial rather than just a general commercial model. 
> 
> \--The 2019 Fall/winter show that took place in February of 2019 (If you aren't familiar, Fall/Winter shows in late early spring and Spring/Summer shows in autumn so buyers can purchase for upcoming seasons). "The NO SESSO show made Pierre Davis the first trans designer to ever show on the official New York Fashion Week calendar." - Out Magazine, Feb. 11 2019 By Mikelle Street
> 
> RE: Anathema's rant- Karl Lagerfeld was iconic in fashion for Chanel and Fendi and massively controversial. He passed away from pancreatic cancer on Feb. 18 of 2019. He said a lot of awful stuff (fat shamed tons of women, like Heidi Klum and Adele, some antisemitic remarks about Germany), got accused of things that in retrospect need a second look (some of his accusations of antisemitism are based on his target of Harvey Weinstein before Harvey's repulsiveness was made public, so who knows the backstory there). He had a really weird thing going on with a french socialite named Jacques de Bascher, who was the lover of Yves Saint-Laurent (another designer) with gossip saying Lagerfeld kept Bascher's ashes after the man passed from AIDS and wanted to be buried with them.
> 
> Karl had a cat named Choupette who had a massive social media presence and had some of his estate left for her care. He also once said if he could, he'd marry Choupette, so there's also that. If you search her image, there are a ton. 
> 
> Header horoscope from - astrology . com  
> Libra horoscope mid-chapter from March of 2019 from astro-seek . com
> 
> Next chapter, we visit Crowley at NYFW, but for some odd reason, I put a chunk in the wrong tense and have to pick at it ALL. My beta highlighted 10 million things, but I can recognize them too now. Writing something this big has really shown me how one can change just over the span of a few months. So if you've been doubting your writing ability, sit down and mash some stuff out because I bet by the time the seasons change, you'll be writing better.


	15. Unfashionably Bold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! It's Crowley's turn for a bit of emotional housekeeping. Header horoscope from cafeastrology.

*

_Libra- The day can find you fitful in spots, dear Libra, but it's also strong for enjoying breakthrough thinking. The Sun in your partnership sector is clashing with Jupiter in your home and family sector, and demands can come from all camps, leaving you feeling overwhelmed. Still, this is also a great time to dream up creative ways to approach your life. Mercury and Chiron come together in your partnership sector, improving conversations. Even if openness is surprising or leaves you feeling vulnerable, it has the power to redirect you and motivate you to start fresh, particularly in a relationship. An opportunity to clear up a problem with someone can emerge. Conversations can be revealing, perhaps to the point that it feels a little too much so, but ultimately helpful. Problem-solving is a theme now, as you see patterns that you may not typically see._

*

Dizzying, pervasive noise. Dramatic, purposeful lighting. And people. Dozens upon dozens of captivating, glamorous, fashion-forward people. 

Crowley soaked in the flashes of photography, in the clamoring of sleazy gossip reporters hiding within the mobs of squealing fans waiting outside official and unofficial sites marked for Fall/Winter NYFW. Shouts of “Look this way, Crowley!” and catcalls that transitioned into the more sedate questions from registered press within. Music and color and bustling spaces packed with models, designers, producers and agents smashed shoulder to shoulder. Make-up artists and stylists nearly crashed into each other as they prepped for one show after another, the designers diving in for last minute touch-ups and hemming away flaws. The frenzied pace of fittings and shows, exclusive industry parties, editors and buyers, all networking. Private events allowing the opportunity to let loose and celebrate at after-parties he couldn't opt-out. 

Crowley loved it all. 

Everyday? No, he welcomed sloth far too much. He required his peace and recovery. But several weeks a year, he immersed himself into the world of Fashion Week, be it Milan or Paris. Or New York, where he and Lucifer now walked, determined, through a gauntlet of entertainment reporters and bloggers embedded with less savory paparazzi upon arriving to their next event. He stopped right outside the venue doors and yanked Lucifer into the image for a grinning selfie to send to the boys. Without much thought, he uploaded it to his social media as well. 

London Fashion Week would follow this period of breakneck intensity; both he and Lucifer would take a more sedate pace at home. These days, Crowley couldn't hit all four cities for both the Fall/Winter and Spring/Summer seasons. He wouldn't want to anyhow. There was a surreal aspect to the event out-of-town which made him lose all sense of time and space. An induced high affecting his decisions and feeding his impulses. 

He walked for NO SESSO earlier today and now made his way into an off-site location for Sandalphon's Fall/Winter2019 Collection and the showing of additional collections offered by several of his prodigies. An observer this time, Crowley looked forward to this particular industry-only show with relish. He loved seeing the new, the creative. The controversial. 

“Looks as though Meekus could use a long nap,” Lucifer whispered in his ear, disdainful but quiet enough to not be overheard. 

“Quit it. But did you see his boots?” Crowley hissed back as they took their seats, front row for the Demon and Morningstar because just their presence alone at this collection would elevate it's importance. “They'd flatter my calves. I might corner him at the Vanity Fair party and see who designed them.” 

Lucifer's voice was low in his ear but still managed to sound scornful. “You go on and do that, love, but thank fuck for Gabriel's drug testing or the lot of us would look like _him_ by day four.” He mimed gagging. 

The uptick of harsh, clanging music and drop of lights made further conversation inconvenient. Crowley leaned back in the shitty folding chair provided. This show wound up the first real break he'd had since arriving at J.F.K. last Monday after over seven hours of flight plus airport hassles at both boarding and landing. While not under contract, Lucifer joined their Celestial Bodies entourage, enough staff and management to secure three floors at their accommodations. He rarely saw his hotel room with how busy they were kept. Between time differences and the nearly 24/7 nature of their packed schedules, neither he nor Lucifer would have much time to check in with Nanny and the boys back in Chelsea.

He didn't miss the days where he'd need to be here weeks in advance, running through castings. Even then, he'd been lucky and gone exclusive for a handful of designer's collections ahead of time. He preferred editorial modeling over commercial and catwalk, but the allure to runway excitement drew like a siren's temptation. His preferred designers rarely had to beg him back into walking for them. 

He felt Lucifer nudge his shoulder. “Hmmm?” He leaned in close to hear over the racket. 

“You'll be arriving to the VF party separate from Gabriel, Michael, and I tonight, you mentioned?”

“Yep.” He grinned and darted a quick glance over so he might bask in Lucifer's frustration. Then his attention drifted back toward the model currently pounding the runway with her excellent walk. The unrelenting savageness of her expression and poise impressed him. He made note to look her up later. “Luce. We need to poach her for Celestial.”

“Oh, yes, nice catch. Look at _her_ go. I'd have a word with Gabriel over her for you, but you still won't share with me who you'll be crossing the carpet with.” Crowley turned and caught Lucifer's petulant sulk. 

“Nope.” Crowley once would crumble like a house of cards over Lucifer's pouting and beseeching brown eyes. Their years together both for better or worse had inoculated him against their power. 

“Than it's all on you, love,” Lucifer said in a most overwrought, long-suffering fashion. He huffed and crossed his arms from where he'd settled one behind Crowley on the folding chair, tipping his chin up while keeping aware of both Crowley and the runway. “You're cruel to me Anthony, keeping your secrets from me.”

“A beast,” Crowley agreed, grinning now. He relaxed, enjoying the final few looks for this collection. Bright but industrial, evoking factories and machinery juxtaposed with a soft, autumn palate. An interesting twist on something he'd seen before, but he knew it wasn't one of Lucifer's favorites. In spite of everything between them, Crowley still liked hitting these events and shows with Lucifer. He knew everything and everyone and was never spare over his opinions. 

“I bet Michael knows, doesn't she, that minx.” Crowley was too late in hiding his expression. Instead, he leaned into his amused smirk when Lucifer gaped like an offended church-lady and slapped Crowley's thigh. “She does! Oh I bet she even had a hand in it! You scoundrels. How did you two ever keep this from me!” 

“You'll have to wait with everyone else.” 

Lucifer sighed the actual word “Sigh.” He rolled his eyes and puffed a lock of tumbled hair from his eyes before ducking his head near Crowley's again. “Sweet Satan,” he whispered. “That is hideous. What is Sandalphon _thinking_. Everyone wants to be early '90s Versace these days, don't they.” 

“Bitchy, aren't we?” Crowley remarked with amusement though he secretly agreed. His eyes back on the show, he studied the next model. He wondered how Aziraphale would handle a fashion show. Too loud and obnoxious for him, this one. But perhaps a sedate Craig Green menswear show or presentation. Those tended toward less intensity with special effects. Would he watch? Would he be bored? He imagined Aziraphale seated primly at his side, a thick hardbacked copy of some classic novel across his lap while millions worth of fashion passed by. Maybe he'd lean in close and fail to disguise a soft 'good lord' at an intentionally exposed breast like the current model's look offered, revealing he'd been watching after all. Maybe he'd reach for Crowley's hand, fingers interlaced and squeezing at the next model, her look sporting a lurid, turquoise ascot he might secretly enjoy. 

“What's got you smiling like a loon?” Lucifer shifted around like Warlock might after boring of his tutor, clearly tiring of the uncomfortable chair. “Scraping the barrel with some of these models, aren't we,” He groused. “Oh, now we're catering to _plus-sized_ , ugh. You can't squeeze a melon into a technicolor sausage casing.” 

Crowley's benign tolerance for Lucifer dissolved. “Don't be an asshole,” he snapped. His light daydream morphed into one of Aziraphale, pretty blue eyes damp behind his lenses with his head ducked down as paparazzi and industry peers shouted rude things over his appearance. Or judgmental snobs ensconced within the fashion world like Lucifer, who'd blurt his biased opinions without thinking and only apologize sincerely once someone held his hand, explaining where he'd fallen short. Crowley's idle thoughts of inviting Aziraphale as a guest to someone's upcoming show for London Fashion Week disintegrated. Aziraphale was precious, untainted by the snide underbelly to this industry. They'd scare him away with their cruelty. 

No, Crowley thought, growing resolute deep in his heart. He'd need to horde Aziraphale away like a treasure, protect him from a world who'd discard him as a chunk of lumpy carbon without acknowledging the brilliant uncut diamond beneath. 

The audience rose to their feet in applause as the models made their final walk together to underscore the cohesiveness of the collection, followed by the designer. Crowley did clap in spite of disliking the return of puffy shoulders on display. He preferred angular cuts to excess fabric but wanted to show support to both the models and Sandalphon anyhow. He turned away from Lucifer. 

“Anthony? Anthony. Love.” Lucifer gripped his elbow. Crowley jerked his arm away, applauding enthusiastically in a way he tended not to in order to avoid being touched. Every time he thought he might remain in Lucifer's company, enjoy it for once in a platonic manner, Lucifer was...Lucifer. 

“Anthony. Please. I've said something, haven't I? It's only what everyone's thinking, love. Be realistic.” 

Crowley spun on him while the crowd broke-up to take advantage of the break between designers. “It's not what everyone's thinking!” He noticed heads turned their way and dropped his voice. “Come on, Luce. You weren't always such a jackass, parroting Gabriel. What if that was Warlock up there?”

Lucifer's eyebrows drew together. “Warlock wouldn't be-”

“Wouldn't what-” he hissed. He bunched his fists at his side. “Lilith isn't that tall. Warlock might end up without the perfect figure you expect. In fact,” he poked a finger into Lucifer's chest. “Forget Warlock. You wanna be part of the change in the industry and not part of the cause? You need to think about shit. I'm not fucking around,” Crowley added, livid. “Our boys might not want to be part of this, but what if they do? Do you want them putting up with the buggery we've put up with over the years?”

“No, of course not! Of course not,” he repeated, softer. 

“The unquestioned groping, the 'accidental' rubbing off against your hip at a photoshoot, the spiteful, mocking remarks over someone's appearance?” His heart threatened to beat right out of his chest, but he couldn't stop. “Snide quips over a softened belly or ageist remarks when a woman hits twenty-fucking-five being par for course? The horseshit some of them say right to the faces of Tracy or Hastur or Michael or Beatrice because they don't look like us? The pity? Do you want that? Do you want to be responsible for it?” 

Lucifer froze and turned to the still-empty runway. “No. Anthony. No. I do not.” 

Crowley mirrored Lucifer, both shoulder to shoulder as the audience returned and lights flickered to signal the impending start of the next show. “You are still a huge, elitist prick.” 

“I know. Believe me. I know,” he said quietly, nearly lost in the surrounding conversation. “Michael finds reason to remind me at least weekly.”

“Michael knows what she's talking about.” He returned to his seat, his body outwardly relaxed but internally, he fumed. 

The music picked up, hinting for observers to take their seats. Lucifer took his chair as well and leaned into Crowley's side. After a few minutes of echoed announcements, Crowley felt Lucifer's nose brush along the underside of his jaw. 

Fuck. Not this. He shivered as Lucifer's warm breath caressed his cheek and drifted to his ear. “I have _some_ redeeming features still, don't I, love?” Lucifer whispered. He nipped at Crowley's earlobe and tongued the opal in his piercing. 

His words were sensual, inviting, but Crowley was not having it, not this time. He reached crosswise to drop his hand on Lucifer's shoulder and pushed him away enough to create some space to focus clearly on his eyes. “Don't,” he pleaded, urging him to understand his seriousness. “I told you before, no more. And I meant it.” 

“Anthony?” Lucifer drew back completely, his eyes wide with surprise. The cheerful lights preceding the next collection flashed against his skin and appeared to mock his defeated expression. “You're certain?” 

Crowley waited, somber. Something in his eyes must have convinced Lucifer because his broad shoulders slumped from his perpetually erect posture. Lucifer puffed out a defeated breath. “You _are_. I hadn't... I didn't...” he fumbled uncharacteristically. He pressed his palms together with fingertips pointed downward, an inverted prayer. “I understand,” he finally said. 

A burden Crowley hadn't known he still carried suddenly unloaded. “A lot needs to change, Luce. And I know you hate change, I know it,” he reasserted softer when Lucifer looked to speak, “but you need to figure yourself out. It's hard and I'm doing the same goddamn thing, but we gotta do it. Shit's different now. _I'm_ changing it all. At least trying.” 

“It's being brought to my attention unavoidably, I admit,” Lucifer murmured so quietly, so heartbroken, Crowley had to lean back inward to hear. Lucifer turned to the runway as the next designer explained their collection. “I suppose I might reread Agnes Nutter's very first book on how to use the zodiac to navigate unexpected life changes. It might have more relevance these days.”

Crowley slid his hand away and folded his arms. “Whatever gets through your thick skull.” He focused on the models now taking the catwalk, his enthusiasm dimmed. His entire being felt fragile, like one clumsy move would make him shatter. He was shocked over how he needed to blink back stupid tears, some from pure relief. _This_ was hard. Breaking destructive patterns was difficult, but needed because they were- in fact- destructive. 

But Crowley was determined. He remained silent, eyes on each model passing without really noticing their look. All these decisive words about renewal and change and bucking the current normal like a wild thing. Shoving doubt into the status quo and pointing out flaws in the system. If he was meant to be saddled with 'The Demon' forever more thanks to embracing his provocative tendencies and flair of temper, maybe it was time to branch out into that moniker and shake things up with a different sort of temptation. The entire fashion industry needed people who were ready to speak up on what was right or wrong, no matter what the tradition. If Lucifer pulled his head from his own ass, he'd be a powerful ally, but for now, Crowley needed to commit to making trouble on his own and keep Lucifer an arm's length away. 

*

That evening, from the backseat of an obscenely well-appointed interior of a Rolls-Royce Phantom, Crowley flexed his cramped muscles as best he could in the available space. This was the last event but the most important, a private party comprised of industry and celebrity invite-only. Crowds would gather along a roped-off pathway with paps, press, and everyday people hoping to catch a glance of their favorites. It tended to be a time for everyone to let loose and wear something worth stealing headlines. Ten days into this long affair, Crowley's fatigued, wiry angles held together on the pure power of caffeine alone. Meanwhile, the Rolls waited it's turn to free him onto the the masses. 

“I was ready for this to be over yesterday,” Crowley grouched. “Not gonna lie though, been waiting for this one.” 

Next to Crowley, Uriel Asante, Ghanaian-born former model and upcoming designer pressed her hands forward and rolled her neck in a luxurious stretch. Her exquisite scarlet red gown edged in a rich black shimmered with her movements, her shoulders nearly bare beneath a sheer cape of deep charcoal. When Crowley'd first found himself an in-demand model at Celestial Bodies Modeling Agency, Uriel took him beneath her wing in spite of her aloof, reserved demeanor. These days, her Paris-based house of design, _L'Occulte Ethere_ , earned accolades while she remained scarce at public events. Stepping out of the Rolls with Uriel on his arm would shock in the best way, a scheme he and Michael arranged on the sly. 

Uriel turned to him, her expression indecipherable if one didn't know her well enough to understand her subtleties. One elegant eyebrow arched. “Appear forbidden and unattainable, keep your head clear..” she paused and and tilted her head nearly imperceptibly. This was practically a jovial slap on the back from Uriel. Crowley grew wary.

“Come on. Let me have it,” he cautiously said as the Rolls pulled up to the the crowded entrance. 

“And for heaven's sake,” she said coolly, waiting on someone to open Crowley's door, “Don't lose yourself to wistful sentimentality and allow Lucifer to seduce you back to his hotel room for a further nostalgic fuck like during London's Spring/Summer last autumn. ”

He sputtered at first, flushing warm. “How'd you know about that?” 

“Shows on.” She leaned to brush her lips close to his ear to be heard over the screaming crush of fans as he forced his limbs to obey. “Everyone knows about that, silly boy.” 

He struggled to contain his blush in the short time it took to exit the car and extend a hand to her. She looked confident, strong, and pleased with her teasing. Crowley could only smirk at her fondly; he wondered if this was what it must feel like to have a beloved older sister looking out for him. “It's all dealt with,” he reassured. 

The gathered crowd, already obnoxious upon realizing Crowley's exit, roared even louder when they realized who joined him between the velvet ropes. Uriel designed Crowley's tuxedo and her own gown to match. His black slim-cut jacket was edged upon the lapel in red pipping and fit like a dream. He felt sexy and suave and couldn't resist orchestrating a bit of chaos by hooking his arm into hers after buzzing her cheek with a kiss, much to the delight of the screaming crowd. 

“Uriel, you've got tongues wagging,” he whispered as he escorted her. Uriel could walk the floor like she would trample you if you didn't move quick. Crowley admired it but wanted their entrance to be a leisurely, sensual display of erotic temptation. Her dress slinked liquid, his tux cut to flatter. The moment they made their move, every camera swung their way. Exactly what he wanted. 

“No more catty articles over your 'suspicious absence from the public eye',” he reassured. “Your work is fantastic.” 

Uriel slowed to pause for a gaggle of photographers to capture them. “Thank you, Crowley. You should hint to Gabriel I want you exclusive for Milan and London for my spring/summer this autumn. And a handful of smaller shows. Tell him I'll anchor the collection on your look.”

“I don't walk runway much any longer, but I'll see about it. Hate to say it, but editorial's more lucrative. Celestial's all about their cut.” The crowd around him kept calling for both his and Uriel's attention. He strained to hear Uriel over them but was able to still sneak little glances around to make eye-contact with random people in response to their shouts. 

“Michael mentioned you were growing weary of it all. And how Gabriel's found even more avenues to being distasteful.” Her expression went blank at the mention of Gabriel. 

“You'll be able to avoid him easily tonight. No such luck for me.” 

“Gabriel,” she said, but then she trailed off and switched tack. “I have another proposition for you. I consulted with an artist for my current collection and am in talks on bringing her in further. She's fairly well known for drawing what some consider taboo into the light with tasteful decadence. Can you keep a secret?” 

Crowley mimed zipping his lips and turned the gesture into a wave at a group of screaming fans. He winked at them and glanced back at Uriel. “Go on.” 

“I'm going to be announcing soon that I've been selected by the board of directors of Celestial Bodies to spearhead their 50th anniversary gala and celebration. I'm to create an exclusive collection and may build my team to my own discretion.”

“Really,” Crowley nearly purred. That _was_ news. After Lucifer, Uriel was looking to be one of C.B.'s most favored alumni. “You're going to be the next Morningstar if you keep this up,” Crowley said, impressed. 

“We'll see.” The slight, pleased curl to her lips didn't quite match her unaffected words. 

“Don't know what Gabriel will say, but I'm interested.” Already his imagination went in keen directions on what she might come up with. The little piece inside of him that wanted to bundle Aziraphale away from this craziness warred with a fierce desire to have him seated right at the end of the runway, perhaps watching with admiration as Crowley flaunted Uriel's design. 

“Good.” Uriel smiled fully then, beautiful for it's rarity. “Michael assured me you'd be. Lucifer's already on board, of course, but he doesn't want to walk.” 

That was also a surprise to Crowley. Lucifer adored anything that brought him attention, and he was very supportive of Uriel. He wondered over Lucifer's intentions. 

They both needed to pause for photographs once within the vestibule where the organizers had corralled most the press. Beyond this area, very few would be permitted. Even those allowed were well vetted. Crowley put his best into it, but both he and Uriel didn't respond to any of the called-out questions over suggestive rumors. He could feel her shutter herself protectively while he closed off in his own way. 

“You wanna be part of this?” he asked her as he pulled his mobile for a selfie. She responded with a demure blink and swayed just enough to fit into the image. “Usual places. Plus the boys,” he added. Her frigidity brought on by the press questions cracked some. 

They moved forward, surrendering the spot to the next group to finally encounter the ballroom. High ceilings with mellow lighting provided an edge of softness preferential to showing off outfits in their best light. Crowley spotted one of the tables claimed by C.B. and guided Uriel that direction. 

“What is this?” Gabriel said as they arrived. He wore an Armani white tux with black satin lapel, and white shoes Crowley couldn't place for designer. His violet contacts had been exchanged for a dark indigo. Satisfaction curled within Crowley's gut when he realized Gabriel seemed miffed to be left out of loop.

“Asante,” Gabriel said with some bite. He nodded his head at her, then much more irritated, “Crowley. I am your manager. You need to inform me of decisions you make. You reassured me you had a date tonight.”

Crowley shot him a confused look. “I do?” He deferred to Uriel, who's icy expression toward Gabriel remained. 

Gabriel reached to place a hand on Crowley's shoulder. “You're as gay as the day is long; no one will believe she's your date.”

Uriel smoothly intervened. “He invited. I accepted. Is this a new rule for Celestial then, since I left? One needs to vet their date with upper management?” Crowley felt some relief when she hooked her arm again and drew Crowley back several steps. 

“You'll be alright if I go join some old friends?” She spoke low enough Crowley might hear, but Gabriel would only see her lips move. Her concern was evident in her words. Crowley waved a hand at her. “Pffft. Oh yeah. He's just jealous he didn't get to pair me up with someone who needed an exposure boost the second he found out I wasn't here with Lucifer.” 

She studied him once more and then stepped away, her gown sliding with her movement. “Come do a round of photos with me in a while,” she requested and dipped her head like the queen when he gave her a thumb's up. Now Crowley was stuck at the table with Gabriel and two members of production he didn't recognize. Great. 

“You know, Crowley,” Gabriel said as he took a seat in the chair next to where Crowley stood. “It's almost as if you don't want to take advantage of any of the opportunities I'm providing you. Almost like you want Lucifer to feel a little jealous of the attention.”

“I'm not with Lucifer.” He'd said something to Gabriel similar at least three times a month since their separation. Monotonous. He tried to zone him out and place the musical act hired for this function. 

“Sure! I'll play along. Then you need to start showing at these events with a real date. Everyone's going to be talking about Uriel and her designs, and while she was once one of ours,” he chuckled here, a strange sound like he had little experience with actual laughter, “It'd be more advantageous for _your_ career to choose one of our rising stars.” 

“She wants me for Milan and Paris for her spring/summer this autumn,” he allowed since Gabriel did need to handle the contract negotiations. 

“Then she'll come to me, not you. And _I'll_ supply your date next time if you insist it's not going to be Lucifer.” Gabriel's voice grew frosty and his expression stern and out of place for what was meant to be a celebratory conclusion to a hard week. He pushed the chair next to him outward as if expecting Crowley to take a seat. Crowley remained standing and left a chair's length between them. 

“Does it matter?” Crowley's frustration was beginning to give him a headache he didn't need on so little sleep. He gripped the back of the chair and scanned the room for someone to excuse himself and walk towards.

“Unless those rumors I'm hearing all over Manhattan this week over you and Lucifer are true,” Gabriel hinted, now sly. 

Lucifer, of course, chose that moment to join them. His dark-burgundy pinstripe suit's pagoda shoulder outed it as a bespoke Alexander McQueen paired with a black bowtie and black Prada formal shoes polished to shine. Crowley noticed he'd taken the advice to line his eyes with a burnt umber pencil to offset their color and transition to the tux's hue. “Rumors? I so love rumors.” 

He pecked both Crowley's and Gabriel's cheeks and adjusted a black silk pocket square. “Love, I saw who you stood me up for.” He smoothed two fingers over the scarlet pipping on Crowley's lapels and eyed the hand-stitching. “You look to die for. And the always gorgeous Uriel is divine. What a genius she is. I'm eternally envious, but you both looked so smashing it was worth it.” 

Gabriel stood, his arms folded across his chest without relinquishing the whiskey tumbler in his hand. “You might think it's hilarious, DeVil, but I'm still Crowley's manager. He's sending mixed messages to everyone.”

“Mixed messages?” Crowley said and snorted. "Because I'm single? Am I a playboy or pining? Pick one.” 

“Gabriel, kitten.” Lucifer leaned his shoulder into Gabriel's with a mildly coaxing tone. “What was your Nice and Accurate horoscope for this week? Because I'm almost positive Scorpio had absolutely _nothing_ to say over being overbearing,” he said pointedly. 

“My _business_ partnerships are reaching a significant crossroads,” Gabriel said after wavering several moments. “I need to reevaluate everything because I'm going to have a breakthrough soon. There's also some language over whom I can count on and draw closer and which people it's time to release.” He narrowed his eyes and skimmed them over the entire crowded ballroom. “Agnes was very clear on that point,” he added absently, his voice dropping softer. “Certain people need to be closer to me.” 

“Is it really time for astrology?” Crowley grumbled, feeling a little chilled by Gabriel's tone. He shuffled backward some and caught sight of Michael arriving with a plate of selected appetizers. He nearly snatched it from her hand. “Holy fuck. Food. Finally.”

“To these two it's always time for astrology.” She allowed Crowley to steal the plate without any resistance, reassuring Crowley she'd meant it for him. “Gabriel, Michael Kors is here and in good spirits. if you're looking to land our Ligur Camaleao an exclusive contract with him, I'd suggest you go now.” 

“Ooooh, yes!” Gabriel's entire expression lit up and focused. “Right on it.” He turned to Lucifer. “You're out of my grips now, DeVil, but as a friend, behave. Crowley?” He turned only his head. “Misbehave within reasonableness. Spice up those impromptu shots with Uriel if you must, but I want to see scandalized gossip about you tomorrow. And don't eat too much of that garbage. What in the world were you thinking?” he added, turning to Michael. He quickly walked off into the growing crowd.

Crowley ignored Lucifer and Michael's banter over Gabriel in favor of the plate of delicately assembled but hearty appetizers. He'd been eating clean for over two weeks; these smelled insanely good. 

“Holy shit, Crowley,” Michael observed. Her eyebrows were up in her hairline. 

He shook his head, mouth full, and once finished, said, “It's been ages. Went out on a date with someone not in industry, 'n' all I could eat was soup. With all the things he's probably heard about models, I bet it didn't help what he thought of me.” 

“Well it was worth it because once the world sees you in this, love-” Lucifer kissed his fingers and flicked his palm outward. “Magnifique. And Michael, my, aren't you a vision this evening, my love? A Christian Siriano original? They'll mistake you for one of the models. Stunning.”

Crowley caught Michael's light bush, but she only looked downward and said, “Oh stuff it in your pie-hole.” 

Lucifer gasped playfully. “How crude. Wounded, I am. And when I was just about to compliment you both on running through backchannels to organize this behind Gabriel. The cheek! I'm off to find drinks and hopefully you'll both be a little less grumpy when I return.”

Even Lucifer's absence left a presence. Crowley eyed Michael watching Lucifer's exit. “Your pie-hole?” he repeated, incredulous. 

She shot him a sharp look that read, shut it. 

“You'll be pleased to know Adam hasn't inherited your surliness as of yet.” He dropped the plate onto the table, already regretting how much he'd just swallowed down after eating sparsely for so long. 

Michael rolled her eyes, dismissively enough for someone who didn't know her well to interpret as sarcasm without anything deeper. 

Crowley felt he'd gotten to know her well. “Nothing to say about it?”

“Please,” she huffed, now looking at the ballroom ceiling. “I only contributed a uterus and egg. If he's a cheerful, optimistic little thing, it's one of his fathers' influences.”

“And yet when I video messaged the boys Tuesday, who's face went like bowl of mush when both boys asked for her?” he said, sly. “Isn't it one of those -ology sort of things? Nurture or some such?” 

Lucifer returned with with filled glasses and a small trail of sycophants he ignored. “Oh did you see Brint? Hard to tell if he rolled in mohair and intended to evoke a cat hairball as social commentary or is just unfortunate. What are we discussing? Nature nurture?”

Michael accepted her glass of something pale and sparkling with a soft thanks. “Your son. Sons really, and the presences or absence of their attitudes.”

Lucifer handed a glass to Crowley which he refused at first, his weakness from last autumn in London fresh in his mind after Uriel's reminder. 

“Juice, love,” Lucifer said softly. After a brief pause, Crowley accepted. He noted how Lucifer made an unprecedented effort to not graze his skin flirtatiously as he usually did.

Oh, he thought, cautiously hopeful and relenting a sliver in his frustration with Lucifer. Only to retract the latter when Lucifer turned to Michael, smirking. “Perhaps the boys will learn some proper manners from Crowley's little round bookangel.”

Crowley instantly blushed, his juice goes down wrong way so he coughed unattractively. 

“He's still relevant?” Michael turned a sharp glance toward Crowley, unable to disguise the curiosity in her eyes. “Gabriel is going to _love_ that.”

“ 'Relevant'?” Crowley choked out. What the hell was that supposed to mean?

“Don't be ridiculous,” Lucifer told Michael, turned toward her but with eyes slanted Crowley's way. “Crowley doesn't faff about with other men long enough for Gabriel to notice.” He turned now to include both of them into his audience. “Should have seen him primping up. Anthony, wait until your bookangel sees you in this confection of Uriel's. You'll be able to burst his little heart with one scorching look. We'll find scattered fragments of him all over Soho. But please, love, wait until my book's in. He's my best hope.”

“Always a prick, you are. I'm off to find Uriel.” Crowley knew his cheeks were red and his eyes too revealing without the safety provided by his sunglasses. He waved them off and wandered into the crowd in search of Uriel to get through photographs. Even completely wrung out as he felt, he'd still honor his promise to help quell the gossip of why she'd been shying away from the spotlight even as her fashion house built steam. He didn't know the the reason, but it was her own story to tell him if and when she was ready. 

The crowd pressed around him with dizzying, pervasive noise. Dramatic, purposeful lighting filled the ballroom. And people. Dozens upon dozens of captivating, glamorous, fashion-forward people. 

Crowley no longer wanted to be here this evening, to be among these beautiful people where even those close to you still spoke with an edge of acidity and kept you on your toes, always alert. He ignored attempts at grabbing his attention. His aloof directness would likely feed into gossip already skulking around of his tiff with Lucifer earlier that day. 

He'd loosened his always present armor that Saturday evening with Aziraphale, allowed a little of his genuine-self to snake though. He was rewarded with a sense of restfulness. Layers and boundaries still existed between them, of course, but it felt so different, so comfortable, so much less of a trial to navigate, unlike nearly every interaction here. He wished he'd been able to carve some time out for a quick phone call or at least message. He wanted to hear Aziraphale's voice talking eagerly of some ridiculous book or a customer he'd thwarted from purchasing one of his stock. Some of the high-strung energy that'd been spooling within released. His walk eased to something more languid as he drew near Uriel and a group of current and former models of Celestial Bodies. 

Being near Aziraphale brought him a sort of peace he hadn't experienced much beyond his boys. He craved so much more. He wanted to run to the bookshop and bathe in it the moment he landed in Heathrow. Did he deserve something so good, so radiantly angelic in his life? “Probably not,” he said aloud with some mournfulness, though the words escaped into the crowd.

Whatever. He'd savor every precious bit of it on offer. The Gabriels and Lucifers and every other arrogant snob could go fuck themselves. With that determined, he grinned artificially and entered the fray.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Scorpio horoscope within chapter from cafe astrology back in Nov/Dec. sometime. 
> 
> The big Vanity Fair party is more of an autumn event. I moved it here. 
> 
> Models are often poached between agencies at big events, especially when they are close to the end of their contract. 
> 
> Editorial is more high fashion, spreads etc. Commercial is what it sounds like from anonymous modeling to more of a celebrity endorsement. Runway is runway. Underwear etc. is sometimes different and often cuts off the model's head if they aren't a 'face'. There's a lot more, but this is more Crowley's area. 
> 
> Lucifer's snarky remarks include slams on several models from the Movie _Zoolander_ because why not, this is all in fun anyway! 
> 
> Craig Green is a London based menswear designer who made waves around 2013-14 (might have to come back and edit that if I pinpoint the year) by producing a more sedate show than the more common loud-shocking-music at the time he started. I have no clue what he does now, but I could see Aziraphale there. 
> 
> A fashion show is fairly short, boom, here's the fashions on a runway. A fashion presentation is much longer, the models remaining in place more like an art model so that the buyer etc. can really study the details of the design. 
> 
> I hate Mohair. Sorry, fans. The angora goat it's produced from is cute though!


	16. Treasure Hunt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, if you've gotten this far, thank you for reading. 
> 
> This chapter took a while because after a lot of discussion once the first draft was completed, we needed to flip perspectives, which meant a lot of extra work for both myself and my poor beta reader, which I. Never. Want. To. Do. Again.

*

_Gemini for kids -Listen up when a friend or parent comes to you with advice. The less you want to hear it, the more likely it'll do you some good! You'll return the favor before the end of the month, though._

*

Crowley's flight arrived at Heathrow so early Saturday morning he opted not to return to Celestial's office with some of the others and wanted to go straight home. Lucifer would have until Sunday afternoon with Adam and Warlock anyway based on their divorce agreement. It'd been nearly two weeks since he'd seen them other than brief video chats, and he was eager to shower them with the swag he'd picked up. He'd returned to the Manhattan hotel in the early hours of Friday morning after the party only to catch a brief nap. Then he jumped right into packing up with the other bone-weary folks from Celestial Bodies Modeling Agency. Though the flight was long, he wasn't able to sleep much. 

Once home, he paced his penthouse, overtaxed and so exhausted it wrapped right back around into an inability to sleep. It was only four in the morning here now. He'd boarded in New York somewhere around two or three in the afternoon their time; travel did a number on his circ rhythm in a way staying up most the night for an astronomical event didn't. He all but collapsed into an armchair with a restless groan. He'd picked this one out more for appearance than comfort. His aching muscles regretted his choice. 

He pulled up _Stargazer's Pub_ on his tablet somewhat halfheartedly. Nearly half a month behind on some of these threads and loads of new comments. He'd missed a conjunction of Mars and Uranus and the annual Alpha Centaurids meteor shower. Most times, there was too much light pollution anyhow when out-of-town at an event, even if he had half a minute to lug his scope out and peer into the night sky.

He really _really_ needed a weekend away somewhere dark and quiet. He swung one leg lazily and scrolled upward in the forum. Nice to see user _Starsparkle_ back in action, he noticed. He was pretty sure the user lived in New Zealand based on the shots they shared. That'd be a trip for the future, but maybe something to the South Downs around Old Winchester Hill or Devil's Dyke coming up? The Winchester Science Centre and Planetarium was out that way. He'd have to check with Michael for his schedule. 

He shut down the forum and stared absently across the room at a painting on his wall. It was entirely too early to invite Aziraphale for a weekend away. He'd pulled men before and swept them off for quick romps in exotic locales, but it seemed such a wrong approach for Aziraphale. Those flings always fizzed out quickly. Something distasteful curdled in his stomach at the thought of rolling up at the bookshop with such a casual, throw-away offer. 

There was nothing stopping him from getting hold of Aziraphale today though. He tilted his wrist to eye his watch. No, too early to call, but he could text- no- he could send an e-mail, he remembered with a small smile.

He arose from the chair, wincing at cramped muscles, and made his way leisurely to his bedroom to check his reflection. Ugh. He'd been put through the wringer since last Monday, and it showed. He looked utterly ragged. But Aziraphale wouldn't give a fuck, he considered with mounting anticipation. A quick shower and some touch-ups and he could go track him down in person. 

*

Seven on a Saturday morning might have been a bit too eager, Crowley admitted upon arriving at the locked and darkened bookshop. He knocked a few times with no results and then drummed his fingers on the door. Last time, Aziraphale had been in that bakery. He decided to check there first while waiting on a decent hour to call. Did Aziraphale have a routine? Did he meet friends for breakfast or a Saturday morning outing? Did he spend the day alone, drifting along to fresh markets or events as he pleased? Crowley imagined it all as he walked to bakery. He slid his sunglasses on, today a Fendi mirrored pair from their women's collection, and wondered what a week in the life of Aziraphale was like. How interesting it'd be to learn his habits, to make surprising new discoveries over Aziraphale's curious nature. It startled Crowley with how much he wanted it, how he wanted Aziraphale to be a missing jigsaw piece snapping smoothly into the puzzle that comprised Anthony J. Crowley. 

A quick glance around the bakery they'd met in before only brought disappointment. He'd hoped more than wise to stumble upon Aziraphale there, to be treated to another nearly indecent display of plush lips and pink tongue slipping out to savor every crumb. Some of the morning patrons watched him blearily but seemed too occupied or hung-over to bother with him. Excellent. He approached the counter and pondered the menu. 

“How might I help...you?” The employee's words slowed and upturned at the end with surprise. “Oh my God, Anthony Crowley!” she tittered. 

He offered a crooked smile, hoping it disguised his fatigue. “Yup. Just need a medium roast today.”

“Of course. Wow. This is crazy. I heard you had come in one day, but they had to be teasing me, right? Until I saw the photo. OH. And I loved the tux you wore at the _Vanity Fair_ party! You looked amazing!” She slapped a hand over her mouth and blushed. 

“Thanks.” There was a lot he could add, how Uriel Asante designed it, how three-fourths of the rumors coming out of NYFW were rubbish. He could mention how he'd spent far more time then necessary choosing the cheesiest souvenirs he could find for the boys, a grand tradition, but also how he poked around Midtown Manhattan until he could find a New York Public library bookmark for Aziraphale featuring an etching of the main branch. 

When he refocused his drifting attention on her, she was watching him expectantly. Fuck. He needed to pay. He fumbled for his wallet. Where was his head? Still at 35,000 feet likely. “Sorry. Utterly jet-lagged,” he murmured when handing money over. He was surprised she couldn't read weariness in his expression; his slapdash job on concealing cosmetics and hair shoved into a haphazard braid while still damp must have done the job. At some point today the paps would catch him looking so beat-up and have a field day with it. Whatever. He had a mission. 

“Your friend was here not long ago,” she volunteered as she turned to retrieve his coffee. 

“Really,” he asked, probably not as casually as he'd hoped. “Light blond, Ye high?” he hovered his hand below his chin. 

“Mr. Fell!” She slid his cup across the counter. “A little early for him today, but he said he'd be busy.”

“You wouldn't happen to know where I might catch him?” Even if Aziraphale was a bit busy, perhaps Crowley might nail down a future date. 

She tapped a brightly decorated nail to her lip and finally grinned. “Oh! _Fiddlesticks_ , the resale shop? He mentioned needing to pick up a book from there that'd come in with a donation. It's one of those little hole in the wall sort of shops, you know? Not too far away.”

“Hey, thanks,” Crowley said, snagging his drink and adding a tip to the jar. He took a few steps and spun around again. Her eyes were wide and she gawked at him with a besotted expression.

“Would it be alright if I posted a selfie of me with your logo?” He felt ridiculous asking permission, but his experience with Aziraphale's shop stuck in his mind, no matter how pleasant the aftermath. 

“Oh wow, that would be amazing! Oh my God.” 

“Yeah okay, I'll do that.” He shot a cheesy finger gun at her with the hand not gripping the coffee and left the shop, feeling like a idiot. He really needed to not be out around town on so few hours of sleep. Half his brain already tumbled ahead, spinning fantasies of seeing Aziraphale again. The other half cringed over his finger gun, what the fuck. Hopefully no one had a photo. He did pause at the front of shop windows for a selfie. Even with his sunglasses obscuring his blood-shot eyes, he looked rough but at least artistically mussed. And it was fucking coffee. Clearly he needed it. 

He poked at his mobile maps and decided to walk the distance with hopes the brisk air might wake him up. Eyes mostly slid past him thankfully this morning; people didn't expect to see the Demon at seven AM in Soho and would just assume he 'looked very much like that fellow, you know, the model'. 

With luck, Crowley would catch up with Aziraphale near this resale place and... what then? What was the appropriate greeting for the man who'd already climbed into your brain but'd yet not gotten into your pants? He lurched awkwardly around an enormous double buggy and returned the scathing glare of the woman pushing it. “Might as well throw a plate on it and get in the street if you're gonna hog the entire pavement,” he grumbled. He'd picked out the most compact buggy for Adam but ended up wearing him most times anyhow. 

His map instructed him to take a sharp turn right, and that he'd reached his destination. “ _Fiddlesticks_ , _Fiddlesticks_. Heh, oh fiddlesticks, I can't find _Fiddlesticks_.” It said he was there, but he glanced around, checking the signage... there! He grinned, but it slipped away quickly at the shady appearance of the resale entrance jammed between an Adult goods shop and a shuttered strip joint. Okay, he thought. Guess it's good to see modern gentrification hadn't taken over all of Soho's leftover redlight seediness. 

Wildly giddy over the thought of perhaps finding Aziraphale here and ridiculously overextended at this point, he pushed hard on the decrepit, heavy door into a musty, cluttered room. “Ugh. Looks like it could be an Aziraphale Fell habitat,” he grumbled, not expecting anyone to hear as he realized with some dismay the shop was empty. A prominent shelf of Agnes Nutter's published books stood alongside an entire section of skeptic magazines and Bigfoot - UFO type books; he rolled his eyes at the display. 

“You're looking for Mr. Fell, you say?” An older gentleman sporting a bottle-green felt hat atop a voluminous head of hair shuffled his way in from a hallway Crowley hadn't even seen. He donned a dated outfit much like Aziraphale might, but the fit was frumpy and the palate in autumn colors odd for early spring. Crowley stuffed his fingers into his jean pockets and figured, what the hell.

“Yep. Have I missed him by much?” 

“What's your business with him, young man,” he accused. “We're very protective of our own here.”

Crowley found his concern charming, much to his disgust. It was rather satisfying to see people in Aziraphale's neighborhood genuinely liked him, were protective of him. Though right now as the gentleman's glare grew, it was a tad irritating. “I'm back in town and wanted to surprise him.”

“Why would our Mr. Fell associate with someone of your sort?” The man planted his fists at his hips as if he were ready to tackle Crowley down without hesitation. Crowley was taken aback. 

“Associate with my sort!” Crowley shoved his sunglasses upward and cocked his head, ready to defend himself, when he remembered – one, that his eyes were blootshot to all hell and two- he wasn't quite sure what he was defending himself against. “What's my sort?” He narrowed his eyes at the shop owner. He _really_ didn't like the man's emphasis on the word _our_.

He waved a hand at Crowley to indicate his whole being. “Much too flashy and skinny as a rail, dressed in a satanic rock-and-roll band T-shirt, leather jacket, and scandalous trousers that might as well be painted on!” 

Oooooh, he thought when he'd cottoned on to the undertone of it all. His grin went wicked and he dropped his words to a low silkiness. “Aziraphale and I 'associate'. He's been waiting on me to come back so we can _associate_ even more. I know he was just in here,” he bluffed, nearly crossing his fingers where they were stuffed out of sight, “and he'd be miiiigty put out if you knew where he was headed and didn't let me know.” He felt twitchy and a little frantic, and he scratched at his temple where his hair pulled some. He shifted his weight several times, waiting in silence, nearly vibrating from his skin. His loosely planned, mad with jet-lag idea of finding Aziraphale this morning had morphed into a Mission, a treasure hunt. Now he was determined to win his prize. 

“He's gone to the tailor's after this,” the gentleman said, deflated now from his challenging stance. Crowley almost felt bad. Almost. But it was clearly very important this Fourth Doctor look-alike knew what was what, and if anybody would be 'associating' with Aziraphale, it wouldn't be this guy. 

“So...er... which tailor?” he asked, phone out to program in walking directions again, since Aziraphale was more than likely on foot. 

The man appeared affronted. “You clearly have no clue about fashion, young man,” he said. “Mr Fell's taste is impeccable, and he and I use the best in London.”

Crowley's eyes went wide. He had no clue how to respond at first and took a second look over the gentleman's clothing. Waistcoat, fluffy cravat, tweed trousers. A style that looked not so off from Aziraphale's but put together far less smart.

“You've caught me out!” Crowley said with an exaggerated grin. He spread his hands wide, sloshing the dregs of his coffee around in the paper cup. “So who's the best tailor in this area?'

“ _Cain and Able's_ , clearly,” he blustered, clearly annoyed but also wanting to lord it over Crowley for knowing something about Aziraphale he didn't. 

“Of course,” he mumbled in reply, already pulling the location up. “See you around!” he lied and got out as fast as he could. It might've been a fabrication, but it was a direction and the fellow seemed arrogant enough to be truthful on such a thing. Walking with a skip in his step, Crowley threw himself back into pursuit. 

He dropped his sunglasses back in place and slowed near a Starbucks, dodging the increasingly crowded pavement. He dumped his empty cup and ducked in for a quick order, double the espresso this time. This was a quest now! He felt wired already, nerves jangled, his fatigue clouding his mind of most things but his nurtured fantasy of Aziraphale surprised and admiring when Crowley strolled up all suave and sexy. Never mind that he'd just tripped over an uneven crack in the pavement moments ago. 

The tailor wasn't much further, only a handful of streets he covered in unknown time. The day looked to be warmer for mid February, unarguably better than the snowstorm he'd left behind in Manhattan. His mapping app pinged his arrival, so he slowed to look around. The tailor's shopfront window appeared smaller with elegant carving on the surrounding brick. Much more comfortable this time, Crowley stepped in to assess. Still no Aziraphale, he noted, disheartened. How quickly did the man bustle through his chores? Crowley's legs were beyond aching by this point. Dismissing it all, he searched around for the proprietor. This place definitely specialized in period tailoring with immaculate details and structure. Clearly, there was an audience for this work. It suited Aziraphale handsomely, in Crowley's opinion. 

“Might I assist you,” a man around his own age asked, jolting Crowley from his thoughts. Then with wonder, “Anthony Crowley? Or the spitting image, my word.” 

“You may.” He flaunted some, enjoying the recognition after his last encounter. “I'm looking for Aziraphale Fell. Has he been by recently?” 

The man folded his hands together. “Oh, of course! You've just missed him, perhaps fifteen minutes out.”

“Yes!” he cheered while pumping a fist and immediately felt foolish. But he was getting closer. “Sorry, long flight. 'S been a while. He's not the intercontinental smartphone type, if you know what I mean.”

He nodded along congenially. “I'm Able, his tailor. He'd just been talking his head off about you! We were worried he'd gone delusional.”

Crowley's smugness from hearing the first bit faded into a frown. “You don't think he'd be any interest to me?” he blurted. He hadn't meant to sound so hurt, but after Lucifer's snipping, he'd grown oversensitive over any slandering of Aziraphale. 

“Oh not that!” He waved his hands to reassure. “Only, Mr. Fell tends to keep to himself most often, but recently he's shown up to update his measurements nearly giggling over a _supermodel_ like a schoolboy.” 

“Good. Let him boast.” Crowley reveled in the thought of Aziraphale gossiping over him with his tailor. “Did he say where's he's headed? I just got in and would like to surprise him,” he added with enough encouragement now to conspire with this possible new ally. 

“I do know!” the tailor said, appearing delighted. “We all just adore Mr. Fell here. I'd love to help with such a romantic notion.”

Crowley wrinkled his nose at the thought of it being a 'romantic notion'; he wasn't _romantic_! He was just popping around the neighborhood in hopes of being in Aziraphale's company after spending much too long apart after such a promising evening together. It's not like he had flowers or some rubbish. Okay, maybe a bookmark he'd spent a little too long deliberating over, imagining Aziraphale's face, but that wasn't blasted romantic! 

“Mr. Fell mentioned he's meeting some of his friends up at St. James park for one of their little box finding adventures,“ he was saying as if Crowley hadn't just gone on a journey of disgruntled expressions. 

“St. James,” he murmured. He had no clue where he even was right now, so dependent on his GPS map. “Where's it from here?”

“Oh just south. Can't miss it. But it's a big park as you know,” he added with caution. 

“I'll figure out out. Er. Thanks,” he managed, already thinking ahead. “Oh, I'm not _romantic_ ,” he added before stepping through the door. “Not a romantic bone in my body you know, Demon reputation and all that.”

The tailor just smiled in understanding. “Of course, sir. Good luck.”

With that, Crowley left and doubled his pace, the determination in his eyes scattering others out of his way. Perhaps a bit too much oomph in his walk lingering over from the runway, but he didn't care; he was close and his groggy brain had one goal in mind. 

He polished off his second coffee and binned it near a stone gateway to the park. When he turned from the waste bin, glancing at his phone to verify the time, he crashed into a woman power-walking from the opposite direction. Her coat was long and draped to her knees and shoulder-length wavy brown hair framed her startled expression. The books cradled in her arms tumbled to the ground. 

“Hey, be careful where you're going!” 

“You crashed into me, book lady,” he accused while straightening his jacket. 

“If your nose weren't tucked into your mobile, you might see people around you.” She dropped down to gather her things, shot him an impressively scathing look through her glasses and pushed onward, clearly in a hurry. 

“Stick _your_ nose in a phone,” Crowley grumbled senselessly, but when he made to walk forward, he kicked a book. “What the hell?” He bent over as best he could in the outfit he'd chosen for looks rather than movement. The woman had left one. “Lady?” he called out, spinning on his boot-heel to look around him. She was gone. “What the fuck am I supposed to do with this?” He glanced at the title, _Agnes Nutter's Beginner's Guide to Developing Your Natal Chart,_ and threw his head back to growl at the sky. “Are you shitting me with Agnes Nutter everywhere I turn? Is this some kind of message?” he whined, a little too loud because it frightened away a few fat doves from a low hanging bough. 

Maybe there was some sort of lost and found for the royal park system. Like he had time to be a delivery service! If he didn't find Aziraphale in this park, he'd cut his losses and call the shop at a more reasonable hour once he was back home curled beneath a blanket watching old sitcoms. 

Once he'd walked a park trail some though, Aziraphale was easy to spot. Crowley slowed his frantic pace and froze, staring at him with satisfaction. Aziraphale Fell, wearing quite a lot of beige, his hair already puffing outward in the light breeze, was walking in circles. Crowley waited behind some decorative iron fencing, watching Aziraphale while growing increasingly puzzled. The feverish, manic energy carrying him through the entire morning muted to a light fluttering and pleasurable fizz. Some little possessive bit of him grew a shade more feral; his Aziraphale, his reward at the end of this frantic quest. His. 

_His_ Aziraphale griped a wad of papers in hand that he consulted before he walked quite soldierly between a newly leafing shrub and and tree, which he then circled like some sort of baffled squirrel. 

He repeated the motion twice while Crowley watched, growing amused. Then he looked upward into the tree branches and back down at the ground. When he cocked his head like a curious puppy, Crowley couldn't hold back. He wanted to swoop in and wrap his arms around the man, but they really didn't know each other well enough for that yet. He settled for a languid saunter until he was within earshot. He leaned against the tree, relaxed, easy, imagining he was not eighty percent depleted of energy. 

“You know you'll make yourself dizzy carrying on like that,” he drawled. He aimed for casual seductiveness when Aziraphale turned completely around and caught sight of him. 

“Crowley?” Aziraphale blinked several times and pushed on the frames of his glasses. A joyous expression crossed his face that then melted into something puzzled. “What on earth are you doing in the park at-” and then Crowley watched in fascinated awe as he pulled an actual pocket watch from his vest. “half-past eight in the morning?” 

Crowley's suave demeanor fled, the dregs of it sapped away by his exhaustion. “Was just at your shop. But you're not open?” He stuffed his hands into his jean pockets and licked at his lips. Every clever thing he'd rehearsed was gone. Fantastic. “So I thought, walk in the park? And then I saw you?” He glanced up at the bare branches swaying in the breeze above Aziraphale's head. What a time for his brain to go on holiday. He decided right now would be the ideal time to redo the elastic binding his braid. In fact, his entire body felt held together with weakened elastic with all the frantic energy he'd summoned for his mission now burned away thanks to tromping around the neighborhood.

“Hi,” he finally settled on, moronically. 

Aziraphale approached him as if he were a bird that'd startle if he drew too close. “Crowley, I'm happy to see you any time of the day,” he reassured. “But you seem...” he dithered, his eyes jumping from Crowley's face to his legs to his fingers still fiddling with the elastic. Before Aziraphale could grow even more concerned, Crowley lowered his gaze to look him straight in the eye.

“I'm sorry, bookangel. Been at fashion week forever, had a late- early flight, I guess it was, didn't sleep all week, got home 'round four-”

“Crowley.” He stepped closer and placed his hand light at Crowley's elbow. He felt steady, secure. “You look exhausted. Why didn't you-”

“I wanted to see you,” Crowley blurted. Twenty sentences fought within his mouth but the only one he could manage was bare honestly. “New York was amazing and exhausting and a fucking pain at times, and when I got back to my empty house, I felt like finding you.” He kicked at a twig sticking out from the grass. “It's been a while.”

“Oh.” Both Aziraphale's voice and his expression went saccharine. “I'm very pleased you wanted to see me.” He looked down at the stick Crowley was toeing. Crowley could only see his fluff of light curls and the very delicate curl of of his ear. “I misunderstood you at our last- at our dinner. After it.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Didn't know what you meant by N.Y. Silly of me, I suppose. Then you didn't- well. It doesn't matter now.” He tipped his head back to meet Crowley's eyes, his very inviting lips fighting to hold back a smile. “You're here.”

“I could've explained it better. It's an industry thing, everybody knows. I wasn't thinking.”

“It's fine. You're here now. But you must be so tired. No boys today? You've just gotten back!”

“Lucifer's weekend. All hammered out in the divorce. I'll get 'em tomorrow evening.”

“Ah.” He rolled and unrolled the papers he held. The corners began to fray. 

Their gaze locked for a few silent moments while Crowley refamiliarized himself with Aziraphale's eyes and the shape of his nose. The little quirk of dimple at the corner of his shy smile. It was all just as he remembered. “So I'm curious. I've watched you circle this bit three times now. What are you doing?”

“Ah. It's letterboxing. I go with my friends usually, and geocaching on Anathema's end, but Newt came down with something. She popped up here to drop off the maps she'd printed and pick up some books I had for her.” 

“Wait.” Crowley patted his jacket and pulled the thin hardcover book from the inside pocket. “Was this one of 'em?” 

“Yes?” He accepted the book and glanced between it and Crowley as if he'd never seen such a thing before. “How d'you-”

“She might've knocked into me on the way in. She was in a hurry? She dropped this.” He flipped open the cover to the title page as Aziraphale held it loosely between them. “It's autographed. Lucifer would die. Must be worth something with how hard it is to find this Agnes Nutter lady, you know?” 

“Oh my! What a coincidence!” He sounded oddly flustered. “And yes, I gave her some books. From the shop. Where I have books. All sort of books, some signed. By Agnes Nutter,” he added with an anxious laugh. His eyes darted off to the side. 

“So the boxing thing,” he hurried to say because Aziraphale appeared as though he needed rescuing, “What is it and how do you do it?”

Aziraphale grasped the redirection with visible relief. “The geocaching I'm not so sure about. Anathema pulls the coordinates up on the phone. We follow the hints until we find a little treasure box. Sometimes you leave a little something, sometimes there's a logbook. I don't know the-” he pointed at Crowley's mobile sticking out from his breast pocket. “Geographical satellite parts of it all.” 

“Like a treasure map?” Crowley didn't have to feign interest. He felt like he'd _just been_ on his own treasure hunt, a relentless pirate in search of booty he hoped to plunder soon. Perhaps he'd savor that image for himself right now, he thought, his cheeks flushing with heat. He had his prize within reach. Everything else was sauce for the goose. 

During his brief moment of fantasy, Aziraphale had drawn near. “A bit like a map, but even _more so_ for letterboxing. These sheets,” he brandished the damp pages, “are printouts of directions on finding the letterbox. You have a personalized stamp and- well.” He stopped and patted his overcoat pockets to pull out a plastic zipper pouch with a little stamp and ink pad in it. Crowley took the bag from him and grinned, leering as Aziraphale blushed lightly. 

“I was right on the nose with bookshop angel, eh?” He held the stamp close, a depiction of a stylized angel blowing a trumpet. “Cute.”

Aziraphale snatched the bag back from him. “I had it around when my friend Newt introduced us to this activity. Stamped Christmas cards with it once. Do stop your mocking, my dear. ” 

“Noooo, this is too good.” Crowley's stomach rolled with interest at the endearment even though Aziraphale most likely used it often. It'd been the first time he'd used it so casually on Crowley. “So you're out here in search of one of these boxes?”

“I'm considering giving up. It's not so fun on your own when you've got a predisposition to go dizzy.” He gestured at his head and then dropped his hand like he was ashamed of doing so. 

“Wait, I'll box with you or whatever it's called.” Bless it, he'd probably settle at his side and watch the ducks if that's what Aziraphale wanted to do. Every jittering, tense nerve he'd suffered the last few weeks smoothed into mellow softness just by being near Aziraphale, like an anxiety remedy he'd only just discovered and now craved. 

Aziraphale beamed radiantly, but the expression morphed into concern. ”But you're exhausted!” 

“Hey.” He rocked onto his bootheels and hooked his fingers into his jean pockets. “What's another few hours if the company's worth it.” His reward was Aziraphale's gaze going so bashful and affectionate he eventually needed to look back down at his papers. 

Score. Crowley grinned, satisfied. 

He helped himself to the relevant sheet to catch up. 

LETTERBOX ST. JAMES 4: UPON ENTERING ST. JAMES PARK, PROCEED TO ST. JAMES CAFE. FACE EAST ON COMPASS. WALK FORWARD ON PATH UNTIL APPROACHING CROSS. TAKE THE LEFT. FOLLOW PATH APROX. .25 UNTIL IRON RAILING IS PARALLEL TO PATH. LOCATE BENT RAIL SPIRE. STAND WITH RAILSPIRE FACING BACK. TAKE 28 STEPS FORWARD UNTIL YOU REACH SEVERAL TREES. LOCATE THE ONLY OAK. THERE, LOOK UPWARD TO JUST ABOVE EYE-LEVEL FOR KNOT IN TREE TO LOCATE BOX. GOOD LUCK. 

“So where's this spire?” Crowley studied his surroundings. One part of the park resembled most the others, in his opinion, but Aziraphale led him off the grass to a somewhat rusty span of fencing along the path. 

“Newton is fairly adapt at this,” Aziraphale said apologetically. “I don't particularly go at it alone.”

“Not alone now, are you?”

“No,” Aziraphale said softly, his eyes alight and wide behind his lenses. “I'm not.”

“Alright. So 28 steps. Let's have at it.” He began walking, counting in his head, but slowed when he felt Aziraphale's hand upon his arm again. He glanced down only to find him panting a bit and shaking his head.

“Perhaps not your sort of steps, Crowley. My word you've got long legs!” The admiration in his tone and upturn to his lips softened the scolding. 

His smirk grew along with Aziraphale's blush. “That's the first anyone's complained,” he said, sly. 

“I'm not...that's not... oh, you!” Aziraphale grinned at him and squeezed lightly where he gripped Crowley's arm. “Come now, like this.” Without releasing him, he stepped forward with much smaller paces Crowley didn't pay any attention to because Aziraphale had him right below the elbow and seemed to be quite happy to guide him along. Crowley was quite happy to allow it. 

“Twenty-six, twenty-seven, twenty-eight. And here's where I'm lost. It says eye-level at the oak. I wonder how old this box is?” 

Crowley pulled his eyes away from where Aziraphale still absently held his arm to study the tree. “Well how old could it be?” he wondered. 

“Oh!” Aziraphale regrettably removed his hand to clasp them together in his excitement. “Well the first letterboxes in the entire world were placed in Dartmoor 'round the 1850s. It's a very old hobby. I read all about it when I first went out with Anathema and Newt.”

“Of course you did.” Crowley said it in a teasing fashion, but he could imagine it- Aziraphale, carefully selecting books to learn about the history and the entire process, perhaps feeling a little anxious at undertaking a new hobby and not wanting to disappoint. He turned to watch Aziraphale, to really look at him as he squinted upwards at the tree, circling it again. 

“What am I looking for?” he asked, back to studying the tree. 

“Mmmm. Usually a container of some sort. A plastic food container or wood. Once we found one in a pencil holder. But usually I've spotted it by now.” 

He watched as Aziraphale's face went from content to crestfallen and swore he'd find this damn thing if only to chase that look away. 

Box thing. Box thing. He looked for oddities in the tree. Something shiny caught his eye, right in a hollowed out spot fairly above his own eye-level. He reached for it, hoping he hadn't discovered an irritable rodent or bird instead. 

“You've got something? Oh that's very high, isn't it?”

“Maybe?” Crowley drew it outward and was immediately engulfed in a flush of pride. He gently placed the little camouflaged box into Aziraphale's hand. “No way that was 'a little over eye level' for most people,” he said in complaint. 

“Just above eye-level, what foolishness, are they a giraffe?” Aziraphale coddled the little box and grumbled while Crowley just stared at him, fascinated by this darker edge of snark he hadn't seen yet. When Aziraphale headed toward a bench, calling back, “We'll settle over here and see what's inside,” he followed dutifully in an oddly blended state of pride, contentedness, and infatuation. 

“We supposed to steal it? Aren't you meant to put it back when you're through?” He slumped onto the bench Aziraphale selected. Aziraphale propped the container onto his generous thighs and thumbed the corners of the lid. 

He wiggled his eyebrows in what Crowley suspected was meant to be devious but came off rather comical. His heart flipped some though over Aziraphale's wily grin. “The etiquette is you must step away from the site in order to keep the location a mystery. Then by stealth, you sneak it back in!” 

“I can do that for ya. Can pull off stealthy.”

One of Aziraphale's eyebrows rose over the rim of his glasses in doubt. He took a very exaggerated glance over the length of Crowley's body, something that made him preen in spite of the reasoning behind the appraisal. 

“No really!” Crowley defended. “Try putting an infant or toddler asleep after you've read to them for a good chunk of time and brought in a glass of water and fluffed the pillow just right,” he reminisced. Some of the rough nights with a very young Adam were foremost in his mind. “You learn quick how to sneak out of a room!” 

Aziraphale met his eyes, expression doting, and Crowley squirmed on the bench beneath the affection apparent in that gaze. “Alright,” he said, deflecting. “What's next?” 

“Ah. Well. We work this box open just so...hang on, it's a bit stuck.” 

Crowley took a moment to scan the park for people and possible paparazzi. The day was still fairly early but warming now, with some families already out enjoying the crisp air. Birds sang merrily around them while some of the trees were just beginning to flower or even flash a peek of green. An expected amount of joggers were out already as well, but no one appeared to be minding them any attention. 

The last thing Crowley wanted was their space of privacy invaded by fans or worse right now. Aziraphale seemed rather chuffed by his company. Crowley loathed to spoil it all. He allowed himself to sprawl further. If the movement happened to place him closer to Aziraphale, neither of them seemed to mind. 

“Got it!” Aziraphale cheered. Inside the box were the inkpad and stamp Aziraphale had described, plus a little plastic zipbag containing a selection of cheesy little tokens. 

“I bet the boys would like this,” Crowley mused. He helped himself to the stamp and studied it; it featured a reasonably well-carved replica of one of the gates to St. James park.

“Certainly! Perhaps we'll all go out one day when it's a fair bit warmer?” Aziraphale offered the ink pad while digging around in his pocket for his own pad and stamp. “The pad's probably dry, but go on and stamp my book.”

“Stamp my book, baby,” Crowley said with exaggerated breathlessness. “When you say it like that...” he cut a side-glance over to Aziraphale to catch his expression at his teasing. He wasn't disappointed by Aziraphale's exasperated head shake. 

“I'm sure I'll never hear the words 'stamp my book' again the same way, you horrendous creature.” He leaned over some so his shoulder pressed to Crowley's arm companionably, though his attention remained on the box. 

Crowley grinned. He inked the stamp for the paper and then stamped the back of his own hand for good measure. A temporary souvenir and proof he wasn't still at home, dreaming away this whole morning's adventure. 

“It really is nice out,” Aziraphale said after they'd been sitting together in a comfortable silence while Aziraphale repacked the box. “I'm so pleased you found me. As I said, I didn't know what you'd meant by New York and eventually thought you'd forgotten me.” He ended his words with a depreciating chuckle, but it all forced Crowley to pause. 

He'd gone and assumed Aziraphale would know the rhythms of the fashion industry, would know what an undertaking NYFW was or even recognize the N.Y. shorthand. How arrogant of him. Nearly everyone he'd been intimate with before was part of that world or were one-nighters who didn't matter. It'd be best for him to be up front with his lifestyle.

Crowley slid his sunglasses off and hooked them to the collar of his t-shirt. “Hey. Anytime you've got questions, ask them. There's no stupid questions. There are times I'm out of town for stuff without much notice, but some of the bigger things are big ol' annual events.” He silently urged Aziraphale to understand. 

Aziraphale turned so he tilted toward Crowley just enough to be noticeable. His own eyes were soft and kind. “That's alright. Anathema, Newt and I figured it out. You looked very nice in the photos she showed me.”

If Anathema happened to be the woman he'd crashed into earlier, Crowley would allow it to slide if this was the sort of comfort she'd been able to bring Aziraphale during his misunderstanding. “I don't even get a chance to speak to the boys much. It's insanity there. But don't worry,” he reassured. “I wouldn't drag you to one.” Not if he could help it. His corrupted daydream from the other day popped into his mind, but it warred with the more optimistic hope he had of Aziraphale proudly watching him walk. Maybe one day. 

Uncertainty seemed to sweep over Aziraphale's expression before bottling back up to culminate in a mildly affable smile. “I had an ex once who traveled frequently. As long as you let me know..” he trailed off and pursed his lips. 

Crowley didn't know what it all meant, hadn't learned Aziraphale's alleys and dead ends yet to determine if he should be concerned. But he would. If permitted, he'd familiarize himself in the cartography of Aziraphale, run along his curves and roundabouts so he might find the best routes to pleasing him. Bring him the treasure next time. 

He met Aziraphale's gaze, offering a reassuring smile. “One evening you might join me and try your hand at one of my hobbies.” His fatigued mind sped ahead, already throwing together an image of his arms wrapped around a bundled-up Aziraphale as he adjusted the eyepiece to his telescope and whispered into his ear, his warm breath perhaps eliciting a shiver. Aziraphale might lean back into Crowley to seek heat or even better, just in pleasure of the moment together on a clear, dark night. They'd be alone in one of his favorite stargazing spots sharing something Crowley had kept away from his other lovers and ex in fear of what they'd say about something so precious to him.

“Crowley. Crowley?” 

Crowley jerked alert. He'd zoned out in the midst of his fantasy. Whoops.

“Looks as though we might need to get moving again, get some of your blood warmed up. It really is a stunning spot, or it will be when those flowers finish poking up. We might go for a picnic one day, do you think?” Aziraphale spoke hesitantly. Had he thought Crowley was growing bored with his company and could only doze off? 

He rose from the bench, stretching fully with his arms pushing out above his head while managing to flash a little tummy in the event Aziraphale might happen to notice. He rolled his neck with a satisfying crack and caught Aziraphale checking out the revealed skin with glee. Excellent. “Eeeeeyeah, I'm good. Just resting my eyes a mo'. Let's get this guy back and do one more?” he slid his sunglasses back onto his face, but he knew his smugness would still be obvious.

The nearly effervescent grin Aziraphale offered in response was worth a hundred sleepless nights.

*

The second box had them crisscrossing St. James park in an entertaining little adventure. Even more people began crowding in the fresh air, enjoying one of the first warmer days after a dearth of sunlight. Crowley vowed to savor every moment. He knew his luck would run out at some point. And it did, not long after they'd discovered and stamped the last box on Aziraphale's maps. 

“Are you the Demon?” a young woman approached and asked gingerly. Her eyes held that look of an admirer excited to stumble upon him in such a commonly used space. 

“Sure am,” he said and tilted his sunglasses enough to wink at her. He glanced to the side at Aziraphale and was gratified to find him watching calmly with an amused smile. 

“Oh wow! My friends aren't going to believe this!” She fumbled in her purse for her phone. “Would you take a picture with me?”

Crowley was conflicted. He loved indulging in this but – Aziraphale. “Do you mind?” he asked him, worrying at his lower lip. 

“Oh don't mind me, you silly. Go on and make your fans happy.” He had his hands clasped in front of him but appeared relaxed, enjoying the atmosphere. 

Crowley couldn't detect any disappointment in Aziraphale's words, and so he shifted his attention to the fan. “Alright, let's do this,” he said to her, wondering how haggard he must've looked by now. By her admiring stare, it must not've been too bad. Fans stimulated him though and soon enough, he built up a second wind and brought out all the rakish charm he could muster for her photos. A passerby noticed and after squealing in excitement, asked for her own as well. Soon enough, a crowd of admirers built around him, peppering him with questions and compliments, with more than one person helping themselves to a grope at his backside. He look around, frantic, wondering what'd happened to Aziraphale. 

Beyond the dozen or so fans, Aziraphale looked as though he'd been pushed aside. Crowley's energy all flagged at once, his fear over Aziraphale's reaction to this dose of reality overriding everything. His head began to spin. 

“Would you sign this?” A pen was pushed into his hand.

“Give us a look like you did in the CK campaign! Your smile was so hot!”

“I cried when you broke up with the Morningstar. What the hell happened?”

Two people pushed into him and he began feeling dizzy, the lack of sleep all hitting at once. 

“Oh my gosh, I have a whole wall covered in your calendar days and pages I ripped from magazines. My friends will be so jealous!”

Someone pressed a phone number at him and whispered he could text them anytime.

“One more photo, please? You're so much taller than I thought!” 

Crowley shut his eyes behind his mirrored Fendis and resisted the urge to snap. He rarely lost it with fans just wanting attention, but between fashion week and the flight and no sleep and running around all morning, he couldn't hold back his trembling any longer. It was so much, too much, almost hard to bring in air, and suddenly-

“And thank you, everyone,” he barely clocked Aziraphale announcing his words loudly, so wrapped in his crawling panic. “You've been so kind, but we're about done here. Move over, chop-chop now, that's lovely, thank you.” One of Aziraphale's hands wrapped around his and the other pressed at side of his neck, just the fingertips, but enough for Crowley to focus on him and breathe. 

He heard some of the crowd grumbling, “Who does that guy think he is,” and “I think the Demon's sick!” If he had any remaining sense, he'd be worried over what the gossip would be, by now the paps must have seen, but he didn't care, he was all over the place, and right there was Aziraphale, concerned and watching him without any irritation over their ruined day. 

“My dear, you're looking a little shaky,” he was saying quietly, his steady fingertips hot pinpoints upon Crowley's skin. “We've had our fun, and I'm ready for a spot of lunch. Why don't we go now, stop somewhere for takeout, and head back at the shop. Is this agreeable to you?” 

Crowley breathed out a long relaxing exhale. The crowd around them began thinning, some staying put and speaking in gossipy whispers. He tucked his chin, still keeping steady eye contact. Aziraphale offered a wealth of control while still deferring to what Crowley wanted. No telling him what to do. No sharp remarks to make him question himself. Just a pure, helpful suggestion he could accept or dismiss. And oh heavens, he needed to accept, needed that freedom to release some of his tight control right now. 

“Yeah. Yeah, let's go.” He hyper-focused on their joined hands, noticing the pressure, the sure grip. 

Excuse us,” Aziraphale said firmly to the crowd and tugged on Crowley's hand. He was helpless to follow. They walked in silence, the cheerful sounds around just a shade surreal to Crowley's utterly drained attention. 

“I'll stop at a kabob shop right on the way home. Can you eat?”

“A little.” 

“Good. Hang on, dear. It's not far.” 

In what seemed like moments later, but surely couldn't be, they were walking into the bookshop and shutting the heavy wooden door onto the world. Crowley felt absolutely dazed.

“Apologizes,” Aziraphale said, releasing him. 

“Hnmg? Whu? For walking me back?” Crowley tipped his head to glance back at Aziraphale with bleary vision. He felt woozy and disoriented, one second still in the park nearly crushed by fans and the next in the papersoft quiet of the bookshop. The only thing that felt real right now was the receding warmth from where Aziraphale had tightly gripped his hand. 

“No, of course not. For the sofa, I mean. It's not the most grand, but why don't you get comfortable and I'll rustle up some plates for our food.” Aziraphale was pacing the confined area isolated off the remainder of his shop in a way that seemed his nerves had finally gotten the better of him. He paused by a wooden trunk piled with books, and once he'd unearthed it, he withdrew several blankets and a velvet pillow. 

Crowley watched from where he'd taken residence on the sofa, bemused, and accepted the offered items when Aziraphale made his way back. “You are literally an angel,” he said softly, words thick with drowsiness. 

Aziraphale flushed the brightest red Crowley had seen from him and ducked his head, shoulders tight to his ears. “Now really. I'm sure you have plenty of people to dote on you,” he deferred. “let me grab those plates. While I do that, why don't you make yourself comfortable.” 

Crowley tracked his exit with eyes now stinging from remaining open. “I'll just rest my head a second,” he reasoned to himself. 

He remembered watching Aziraphale fuss over him with growing devotion. He remembered settling on the sofa, waiting. And then he remembered nothing else. 

He blinked away enough weariness to see Aziraphale's face not far from his own. “Must have fallen asleep,” he mumbled, still very much drowsy. He'd been tucked beneath a blanket and the lights were dimmed. His body felt weighted down. 

“Not that you aren't welcome, Crowley, but I'm sure you need a solid, good sleep before you have your boys tomorrow.” Aziraphale said this kindly, his entire expression soft. 

“'S a little cramped.” He slowly pushed into a sitting position. The blanket pooled into his lap. Aziraphale stood before him, no longer stooping to meet Crowley's eyes, hands clasped behind his back.

“Whyzzit dark?” 

“It's going on eight at night, my dear. You fell asleep in the time it took me to return with plates for our food.”

Crowley dropped his head onto the back of the sofa and grunted a “Gmfgh.” Wasn't that lovely. He'd somehow put Aziraphale in tears on their first date, and that _was_ a date in his mind, co-opted his entire day today after a ridiculous, overtired and frenzied search, needed rescuing from a bit of a panic, and had fallen asleep on him like Aziraphale's company bored him. Fantastic impression he was giving here. 

And then Aziraphale had made him comfortable on the sofa, removed his shoes, and draped a blanket over him quite kindly. Something fizzled inside. He'd left him in the dark for days and still, Aziraphale was ready to show him kindness and acceptance. 

“Hey. I didn't mean to give you the wrong idea after we went out.” He found himself snuggling the blanket close, something fierce aching in his chest. He wished he could carve it out and show him, allow Aziraphale to bear witness to the bright, fierce affection for him Crowley nurtured. 

Aziraphale rocked on the balls of his feet a few times and held a hand up. “I understand. Your life is very different from mine, but everyone is different.” His head was cocked to the side slightly, watching with limitless understanding. 

Crowley felt seen for the first time in his existence. 

He unburdened himself from the blanket. “Shoulda tried to sleep when I got back. I just needed to see you.”

“That's very sweet, Crowley. I'm not going to complain.” his lips quirked a half-smile. 

“It's not sweet,” he grumbled, hunting around the floor for his boots. “It's greedy.”

Aziraphale nudged one wayward boot toward him. “Oh is it?”

“Mmmhmmmm. I'm the Demon of Celestial Bodies, you know, fierce supermodel, nothing sweet here.” He looked up at Aziraphale with a sleepy grin from where he was perched at the edge of the sofa. “You should be clutching your pearls over the thought of my ravishing you.” Then his jaw cracked in an unavoidable enormous yawn. 

“Yes,” he murmured, stepping close. He reached to trace a path over Crowley's cheek to his chin as if following a line, perhaps a pillow mark or darkened spot leftover from sleep. “A menace,” he whispered. “What was I thinking.” 

“'S okay we're different,” Crowley said, his words still somewhat husky from sleep. He needed Aziraphale to understand, not to fear. “You learn a little about me, I learn a little about you. Then me, then you, and we keep going and going, building a little more until we know each over like a- like a path you've walked along so often every turn is instinctive.” He hadn't meant it to come out so passionately intense, but clearly it'd affected Aziraphale so. He was gazing at Crowley, lips parted, all together looking so soft and plump he probably tasted of sweetness. 

Crowley had to pull his gaze away before he did something else laced with stupidity to cap the day off. He leaned down to pull his boots on. His spine complained heartily. “You have a point on going back to my own bed.”

“Did you want-” Aziraphale began then froze. He stepped back and made a great show of adjusting his clothing. Crowley's spent brain completed that sentence with a variety of scenarios. He forced himself to wait, to finish pulling on his other boot before standing from the sofa without crowding him. 

Aziraphale ceased plucking at his clothes and met his eyes, his jaw set in determination. “I've got a member's only preview of a special exhibition at the British Museum Wednesday evening. Would you care to accompany me?” 

Wednesday...I can be free.” The stupid bird fluttering around his stomach settled it's wings. 

“Splendid! I know of a sushi shop, small, family owned, out of the way we might go to before, or do you even like sushi?” His fingers were twisting upon themselves in an anxious twitch Crowley wanted to soothe. 

Instead, he reassured, “Sushi's fine. Would it be alright if I pick you up around five then?” 

Aziraphale stepped closer, then paused, then stepped back some. 

Crowley was at a loss over what to do. Did he kiss him? He wanted to, desperately. Step back? Allow Aziraphale to lead? It felt as though he was coaxing in an alley cat, but he'd seen the fierce lion today at the park, so confident and in control. Aziraphale decided for him and reached for one of his hands with both of his. He stroked his thumb slow along Crowley's, sweeping downward and skimming up the side of Crowley's index finger in hypnotic motion. Such an innocent touch, such wide, affectionate eyes behind smudged lenses should not have the effect it was having on him. Crowley shifted as the denim grew tight where he'd gone hard. Holy shit. “Aziraphale,” he almost whined, nearly delirious with jumbled emotions. 

“Crowley,” he said, soft as feathers, smile like a... like an angel. “I'm very grateful you made time to find me today. I'm looking forward to seeing you this Wednesday.” And maybe it was the exhaustion, the delight, the whiplash of emotions from the last few days, but Crowley shuddered with the tide of syrupy arousal sliding over him like slipping into a hot bath. He wanted to pull him closer, claim his treasure. But Aziraphale was trembling some. Just the slightest, but it was there. 

Crowley could do slow, sultry. Draw things out to enjoy them. For the first time, he wondered- what if this was it? His last first flirtation, his last first date, his last first kiss? He was so used to grabbing what he could when he could because what if the chance never came again? 

This was _different._ He knew it in his bones. Aziraphale seemed fragile and yet as though he could bear a windstorm, that Crowley might lean upon him for support in a way that did not come naturally to a man who'd grown up with frequently changing guardians. Aziraphale might have shared with Crowley that his head injury was a weakness. Crowley only saw a man who'd come back from something awful only to move forward with brilliance, a tenacious and resilient little angel. Perhaps Crowley's _personal_ angel, another thought he'd keep to himself. Aziraphale might seem hesitant on the surface; Crowley could already sense the solidness beneath. 

“You're dozing off again,” Aziraphale chided softly, through the effect was spoiled by how breathless he seemed. 

Crowley begged to differ, he was daydreaming, not dozing. However, somehow he'd let himself slip enough to curl inward and rest his cheek upon Aziraphale's hair, his nose buried in fluffy, ceder-scented curls. Every molecule of frantic stress from the previous weeks had dissolved. “Wednesday then,” he reassured softly. He lingered, savoring this innocent touch, the heat upon his skin. He delighted in the contrasting balance of being able to tuck Aziraphale's much shorter body against his own while still feeling a little sheltered by his sturdy frame. Before he could second guess himself, he pressed his lips right at Aziraphale's temple and stepped away slow. He could only flick the briefest of glances at Aziraphale's open fondness before turning away. 

“Wednesday, 'bout five,” he repeated without looking so he wouldn't do something brash- well more unthinking than this entire day had been. He made his way to his Bentley, feeling as though he'd reached the uncharted territories of a map of his own making. He was ready to wander into the unknown where only _Here be Dragons and Serpents_ was written, head held high and heart very likely already stolen like treasure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is one very, very cheesy line in this chapter my beta said to take out and I resisted for no particular reason. I'm sure a year from now I will come back and wonder what I was thinking, but eh. 
> 
> South Downs national park, Hampshire, West and East Sussex became an international dark sky reserve in 2016 with around 66% of the park having bronze-level skies as assessed by the International Dark Sky Association, which means the Milky Way and the Andromeda Galaxy can be seen. 
> 
> The Alpha Centaurids is a class II meteor shower takes place in mid-February which I did not plan but found as an entertaining coincidence. 
> 
> Many apologies to the Fourth Doctor (Tom Baker aka the one with the cool scarf) who is one of my favorites. But your look-alike has a crush on Aziraphale, and Crowley needed to take you down. 
> 
> Bits of Aziraphale's natal chart:  
> D.O.B. July 25 1984 3:30 pm in Swansea, Wales  
> Sun in Leo  
> Moon in Scorpio  
> Rising in Scorpio  
> Mercury in Leo


	17. Unbalanced

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Libra astrological assessment for love from Astrology . com
> 
> Apologies for taking so long to get this up. We have few computers here capable of handling zoom meetings so it's hogging all my editing time. This chapter and the next are very closely bound. I hope to have it up soon. I'm getting some burnout from work and how creepy all the social distancing efforts are in the store. My state has a high case count for COVID and my small grocery chain is taking it very seriously. 
> 
> I commissioned an artist for two drawings for this story. One is finished, and I hope to figure out how to host and link it eventually. The other is for a chapter far in the future, so if you catch it when it shows up on tumblr, it's from somewhere in the mid thirties chapter-wise. 
> 
> I have one small sensitivity warning I'll put in the end notes so it doesn't spoil. It has to do with anxiety.

*

_Libra - When a Libra man falls in love, he will see the subject of his affection as a person he is going to marry. He can be quite dependent on feeling attractive and loved, but you will know he loves you when he starts talking about marriage. This can happen at the beginning of a relationship, and a Libra man can move too fast, scaring his partner away with expectations that seem unreal. This is a consequence of the Air element of Libra that gives this man speed and intent, with a need to follow his ideas through. The incredible thing about him is his ability to rush into love and marriage even though his sign exalts Saturn, and we would expect him to slow down and wait for the right moment. Someone would say that he wouldn’t take things that lightly, but the fact is he can’t waste his time on relationships with no future or depth. He simply thinks it is best to know where he stands right away._

* 

The modern, prestigious facade of Device Publishing appeared slick and formal, blending in with the other upscale businesses flanking the publishing house. The neighborhood knew in abstract this was the home of Agnes Nutter's empire and the headquarters for a variety of magazines and other publishings in the areas of astrology, new age living, and conspiracy theories. From the outside, you'd be forgiven for thinking the inside was equally distinguished instead of being mistaken for a museum of oddities.

'Evidence' of the otherworldly and strange was proudly displayed behind glass within the atrium. Writings and photographs, some framed, filled most the available wall space. A thin counter separated this lobby from the entrance to the actual printers and presses, which comprised the bulk of Anathema's property. She reserved the upper two floors for office space. These were appointed much more comfortably, homey and welcoming for the comfort of the volunteer eager to share their alien abduction or encounter with Big Foot. While syndicated columns and horoscopes remained digitally distributed, the very nature of her readers demanded dedicated print by mail thanks to suspicion and distrust. 

Aziraphale had an office here he never used. Rather, he did find a function for it, and that purpose was to store even more books he couldn't fit into his flat or the overstuffed shelving in his back room. He finished dropping off some new acquisitions and headed down a hallway adorned with abstract art featuring constellations of the zodiac, though Anathema included the debated Ophiuchus. Aziraphale paused before Libra.

Crowley's sun sign. The scales. How apt, he thought, as he wrestled over furthering his interest with such a sophisticated, cosmopolitan Supermod- No, he corrected. With a rumpled, drowsy Anthony Crowley who'd blinked at him with an endearing sort of trust from Aziraphale's worn sofa. 

The scales bore his opportunity verses his apprehension evenly. 

He joined Anathema in her own private office, which offered much more free space than his own. 

“One moment, Aziraphale,” she said from where she sat with Newt at a table buried in papers and folders. “Here,” she directed back to Newt while pointing at a map. “Three incidents of Adar Llwch Gwin sightings in one week here. And there's one from a village not too far off.”

“I don't mind running out there for a few days.”

“Oh could you? Take one of the interns, Brian or Pepper would do. I need Wensley here.” 

“Sounds good. I'll just-” he pointed at the door and brushed her forehead with a kiss on the way out. “Oh, Aziraphale! I'm sorry about Saturday,” he said with a kind smile. “But I heard it worked out in your favor.”

Aziraphale closed the book he'd been skimming using his pinky finger as a marker and glanced at Newt. “I'm happy you're feeling better. Not that I wouldn't have minded either of you there of course, but it was illuminating.”

“See! Just try not to jump to conclusions next time. I think you even wrote that for Leo, _Agnes_ ,” he said pointedly. 

“I'm attempting to take my own advice to heart, my dear boy, but I'm not exactly comfortable doing so.”

Newt nodded and leaned against the doorway. “It's never a waste to try our best, even if it doesn't end the way you hope.” 

Advice you knew instinctively always sounded better to Aziraphale coming from someone else. Still, he gave his thanks and asked where Newt was off to next. 

“Aziraphale!” Anathema called out, interrupting Newt's story of giant birds over Welsh high country. “Come. Sit. Let's chat about the book before we get to the the good stuff.” 

Aziraphale flashed Newt an apologetic smile and made himself comfortable at the least buried spot at her table. Anathema's glasses dangled from a chain, and her hair was pinned up between two pencils shoved in a precarious construction Aziraphale was surprised to see keep hold. He unloaded a near brick of typing bound in his preferred Kraftpaper and string and pushed it across the table to her. 

“Nearly finished!” he said, proud. “Agnes Nutter's next book, ready for editing. I've got a glossary I want to finish, but if you'd like to get started on copy-editing...” he trailed off at her concerned expression. She fiddled with a lock of her hair that'd fallen from the bun, which indicated she wanted to approach a delicate topic. He sighed heavily. A pebble clinked upon the scale pan in favor apprehension in his mental image of Libra. “And you want to put my name on it. My actual name.”

“I do,” she burst out, clearly tired of holding back. “Aziraphale, you put so much work into this. You're so talented. Why don't you want-”

“We've been through this.” Over and over, in fact. Aziraphale bit back a frustrated sigh. She was only trying to help him. 

“Newt and I were thinking. We could add you as a co-writer. Do it for the next few books, and then we can transition. It'd be less jarring on you, we think.”

“I'd be my own apprentice? That puts an unusual spin on the saying, 'the student has become the master'.” A trickle of queasy acid burned at his throat as he forced a thin smile. 

“Ha. What do you think though? It's not throwing you to the wolves this way. You could ease into publicity. Could still keep to yourself.”

Aziraphale gave in for the moment and considered. It sounded terrifying on the surface. He wouldn't be mobbed like Crowley had been at the park, but there would be crowds at some point. And Crowley seemed to _hate_ Agnes Nutter. What would he say when he discovered Aziraphale was the mind behind the horoscopes Crowley mocked so freely? But out of his acquaintances, Crowley would still be the best person to advise him, no matter what their personal potential might hold. Another pebble dropped to the scale, this time on the side of opportunity. 

But if he did this... he'd do it slowly. It had to be slowly. Close to no one knew he was Agnes Nutter, let alone worked with her enough to share a headline. With so much interest in her whereabouts, how would his addled brain handle juggling being both himself and Agnes at the same time? It was beyond his imagination and another layer between himself and anyone he might become intimate with. It needed more thought. 

“Not. Not this one, I think,” he said, comfortable with his uncertainty. Her expression went somber with understanding. “But I'll think on it for the next one. I've got it outlined already.” 

She tilted her head with a pleased curl to her lips. “That's all I ask. Consider it.”

Aziraphale thought over how much his life had already shifted in such a short time. Perhaps he should barrel forward like a bull in a crowd and sort out the explosion of emotions in the aftermath. “I might ask Crowley what his experience dictates,” he offered to Anathema. Testing. 

She shifted topics easily. “How _did_ that go? You were very cagey on the phone yesterday. I could swear I saw him-”

Aziraphale failed to hold back a devious look. 

Anathema eyed him warily. “Waaaaait. You know something, OH. Hey, he nearly plowed me over! Oh the nerve!”

Aziraphale dissolved into a stifled giggle and wiggled in his seat. “I've asked him for an actual date to the British Museum!” he shared gleefully. 

Anathema's eyebrows arched upward. “Does Robert still work there?” 

Aziraphale froze. “Yes,” he said, hesitant. Oh for heaven's sake. The first date he initiated with a genuine celebrity supermodel, one of the more surreal experiences in his life, he decided to drag him to where his ex worked as curator of special collections. How grand. 

“Oh bother and then some!” he grumbled as he realized the hash he'd made of it. 

Anathema patted his hand. “It'll be fine. It's been years. He's married, still jet-setting the world. He might not even be there.”

“True.” Most his memories of his ex were fond, but he could be overly proud of his wit and eventually fatigued of Aziraphale's constant worry and reclusive nature he'd developed after his injury. There was always a new site to investigate, a lecture to give, an exotic location to visit, all with offers for Aziraphale to tag along. When Robert ended their relationship, sympathetic but edged with bitterness, he'd said something about wanting different things from life. It took several more years of recovery for Aziraphale to admit he'd been right. 

It remained his longest post-injury relationship. There'd never been anyone else he'd considered for another.

Until now. 

“Crowley would be another globetrotter,” he said quietly. He stared off into the distance with his misgivings foremost in mind. “Part of me fears he's going to pop my heart like a grape.” Another pebble of doubt added weight to the scale of apprehension.

“And the other?” Anathema's tone, always patient, sounded even more so at his confession. 

“It feels so right.” He returned his gaze to her. “He napped in the shop on the sofa-”

“Ew! Not Bertha!” 

“Beg your pardon, 'Bertha' is comfortable-”

“ _I_ recall the resale shop you dragged that carcass from.”

“ _Moving on_ ,” he grit out, only moderately offended, “I thought he'd be out of place at the shop like some wayward fantasy creature, but he looked so much like he belonged. Oh Anathema! Is this all foolishness?” He thought of how quickly the crowd built up and displaced him at the park once Crowley'd been identified, an incident which would replay itself frequently if he were allowed to remain part of Crowley's life. 

“Another consideration,” said Anathema after a pause. “He's a single father. One child's quite young. And divorced in frequent contact with an ex who's lived his entire life in the spotlight. Warlock DeVil's already had a handful of roles. Have you considered what that means? It's a difficult situation already before you even step into it.” 

Aziraphale's mind raced. He'd wondered on that particular fact far longer than he'd known Crowley was _the_ Crowley of fame he'd been oblivious over. He knew there were relationship books in his shop, items he carried to meet demand but never paid much interest. He'd only mused in abstract over how a successful relationship with Crowley might eventually lead to his own involvement in the children's lives. The children. That reminded him...

“Anathema. Crowley sent me a photograph attached to an e-mail I've been unable to open on my computer.” It'd popped up Sunday evening. Something exhilarating had stirred in his chest while reading the brief message:

_Boys and I at 'Il Piatto di Legno' with the berry semifreddo. Bet you're jealous. But of me or the spoon? See you Wednesday. X -C_

No matter what he tried, though, he could not get the photograph to load. He almost wasn't sure he wanted to tempt himself with it anyhow, but his curiosity outclassed any hesitation. 

“Go ahead.”

He crossed the space and logged into his account, a much more efficient process on her modern technology. He pulled up the email; the photo was easy to download. 

And there were Crowley and Warlock, in a booth this time, with Adam still in a toddler chair pulled to the edge of the table. All three leaned inward to fit the frame. Adam had his own little sundae and pointed a chocolate covered spoon at the lens. Warlock's half-smile appeared uncannily similar to Crowley's in spite of no shared genetics. And Crowley-

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale murmured. Crowley's deep green casual button-down and bright liner seemed to bolster his freely cascading bright ginger waves of hair. He knew what he was doing with his shameless, suggestive expression and the spoon held partially withdrawn from his lips with the barest flash of tongue. “Of you or the spoon,” Aziraphale scolded the screen in an attempt to sound scandalized. He knew the effort was pointless when he felt Anathema step closer with an inquiring noise. 

“Aziraphale!” she exclaimed, her eyes wide and zeroed in on Crowley's photo. “I know you said...but I-” Her expression performed an admirable feat of acrobatics before settling on awe. “Newt!” she called out to her husband who was quietly packing a knapsack in the corner. Aziraphale hadn't even noticed Newt return in his distraction. 

Newt meandered over in curiosity only for his mouth to gape slightly in surprise. “You were worried he might've forgotten you, and meanwhile, he's sending you things like this?” 

“I know!” he nearly wailed before curbing himself. Aziraphale closed out the window but remained in the chair. He absently pulled two lengths of jute roping out to knot together and settle his flustered state. “It's almost inconceivable, you understand.”

Anathema tapped him on the shoulder. When he turned, she gestured around her to encompass the entire room and possibly the building. “We _thrive_ on 'inconceivable' here.” She tipped her head in challenge, never one to allow excuses in all the time he'd known her. The weights on either side of the scales of Libra rattled. 

He swallowed down some of his protests. “On Wednesday, what if he has-” he lowered his voice as if one of the college interns were lurking and might object- “ _expectations?_ ”

Anathema managed the most deadpan expression he'd ever encountered. “You're acting like someone's maiden aunt,” she said after a lengthy pause and and incredulous expression. “ I _know_ you haven't been a monk. Remember when I walked in on you with the footballer-”

Aziraphale hastily hushed her, his cheeks warming and the surgeon's knot he'd partially finished tangling with fumbled dexterity. “Yes well the less we hear of that the better,” he muttered, chagrined. He caught her mouthing _tell you later_ over to Newt and scrambled to change the subject. He frantically peered around her office and back to the monitor that'd so recently enthralled him with Crowley's playful photo. What if Crowley sent a less _family friendly_ selfie? One perhaps Aziraphale might desire to view in privacy but couldn't on the aged machine in his shop gasping it's last zeros and ones? 

“Computer!” He spit the word out like a sneeze. 

Newt and Anathema both looked at him oddly. 

He channeled some bravery, determined to push past this barrier in his process of healing. His heart squeezed with the thrill of recklessness, the little scale in his mind close to upending all his gathered apprehensions and opportunities into one great slush pile. He glanced down at the perfect surgeon's knot cradled within his fingers, tied without even looking. He recalled the days when he could barely hold one rope steadily, let alone bind two together without effort. He made strides in dexterity when he kept pushing through the difficulties. Why had he stopped pushing forward in other areas of his life?

“If you aren't busy some time in the future, I'd like you to accompany me in purchasing a new computer. Something... modern.” He sucked in a breath and felt a little silly. Who on earth panicked this much about making such a minor change in their lives, just his ridiculous self, what an _embarrassment_ he must be to others...but then he looked up and met his friends' expressions. 

Newt and his gentle smile. Anathema, gazing at Aziraphale with pride, her eyes shimmering. No snarky comments. No _about time, you great fool._ Just understanding, patience, and awareness of the difficulty of this small act.

“I would be honored,” she said. Aziraphale beamed. The scales of Libra tipped toward opportunity. 

* 

Wednesday afternoon found Aziraphale adding the finishing touches on next week's horoscope castings, overworking them some as his anxiety increased. He'd closed yesterday and hadn't open today, which wound up a fortunate choice when he realized he'd spent a fair part of Tuesday fluttering between unfinished books he left all about and perfecting various single-column ties with lengths of rope off off the banister to his stair rail. 

He only took in the resulting disarray when he returned from _Sweet Treat_ with his coffee and pastry. “Nice to see the duality of my mind manifesting itself all over the place,” he grumbled aloud upon noticing the scattered books in contrast to his orderly knotwork with their perfected bight loops and precise lay dangling from his railings. He'd spent the morning straightening up and buckled down to finish his horoscopes before he could work himself into the second panic attack in days. 

A date. He'd initiated.

What'd come over him? As he made his way to his wardrobe to consider what he should wear tonight, he shook his head wryly. Wasn't worth it to fool himself. He knew the basics. It was the moment he'd glanced up from his confused study of the letterbox instructions, stunned to catch a pleased, smirking Crowley lounging against a nearby tree, watching Aziraphale's foolishness from behind mirrored sunglasses. Or was it when he nonchalantly suggested he might join Aziraphale's anachronistic hobby without blinking an eye, not one hint of sarcasm or mocking in his tone?

No. He knew. When Crowley's admirers had shoved him aside as just another gaping fan, he'd taken it with aplomb. But he observed as Crowley's cheer faded, as his natural languidness floundered. Aziraphale wondered what the hell was wrong with these people, didn't they see Crowley's distress in his subtle movements? The strained tension in his smile and clenching of his jaw as they pressed at him? 

Suddenly, Aziraphale needed to intervene. He needed to shove his way through the gathering of fans, had parted them with an unexpected ease. Needed to calm Crowley, provide a focus, his own experience with anxiety put to work to allow Crowley the space to regain the control he'd lost.

Needed to be there for him in a most alarming way. 

Perhaps Aziraphale was yet another causality of an element allowing celebrities to capture the public's fascination with their appealing blend of sensuality dotted with glimpses of unexpected and intimate fragility. Perhaps he'd fallen for that charisma like any number of fools. 

The scales remained balanced, and as he selected a shirt, he wondered if it would even matter any longer when they did eventually tilt. 

*

“Can't wait to see you. I'll be there in five.” 

Crowley's quick call and even swifter disconnection left Aziraphale with the phone handset gripped in his palm, staring at it stupidly. 

Opportunity.

Apprehension. 

Crowley's voice, low and slick over the line sparked a smouldering slowburn webbing outward from Aziraphale's belly. He allowed the handset to clunk heavy onto it's base. Five minutes. 

He'd opted for a semi-formal vintage button down beneath a vest with braces clipped to his trousers rather than a belt. He'd gone without any sort of tie in a daring experiment in flirtation, and he was relieved he'd indulged in such impulsiveness once Crowley knocked at the door. Aziraphale opened it to find him lazily tapping at his mobile, hips cocked impossibly sharp. Crowley seemed far too handsome and luxurious to be seen standing near Aziraphale's admittedly shabby bookshop in his impeccably cut fine wool tuxedo jacket over ridiculously tight black leather trousers. Aziraphale's fingers twitched in some repressed desire to reach out and reassure himself he wasn't hallucinating the entire thing. He clung to the coat folded over his arm for later in the evening. 

“Aziraphale.” Crowley's eyes flicked away from his mobile, unusually bare today so the soft amber appeared particularly striking when they met Aziraphale's gaze. Rather than the wicked smirk Aziraphale expected, Crowley's smile appeared content and genuinely pleased. 

“Good evening, Crowley.” He too could appear collected and as though his nerves weren't mimicking a hive of bees. Though from the way Crowley's grin finally expanded as he turned away, he guessed something in his demeanor outed his anxiety. 

“You good to be in the car today?” 

Aziraphale nearly mistepped. He glanced over at Crowley's concerned expression. “You remembered,” he said in wonder. 

“'S not been _that_ long,” Crowley said with disbelief. And, Aziraphale thought, there'd been an edge of anger there too, not toward Aziraphale himself, but toward whatever amorphous being in his past might have made Aziraphale surprised for the effort. “You look good today, bookangel,” he murmured as he popped open the Bentley door and guided Aziraphale with a highly debonair move, his hand light upon Aziraphale's back. 

In a haze, Aziraphale made himself comfortable in the passenger side of the front bench. During their previous ride together, he'd been far too stressed to realize how close the narrow front seat positioned them in this classic vehicle. There was no avoiding the awareness now as Crowley slid behind the wheel and left little space between them. 

“Your jacket's very nice.” Aziraphale winced as soon as the words left his mouth. Crowley likely heard that sort of drivel so often it was background noise. 

“'S last season's Burberry, sorry.” Crowley kept turning his head to glance at Aziraphale and then away. His hands fluttered around various levers on the driver's side until the engine awoke with a roar and settled into a purr. He stroked his long fingers against the steering wheel for a moment before adding, “And I'm sorry to say it's been ages for the Yves Saint Laurent leath- you don't really give a fuck about that all, do you?” he stopped and bit down onto his lower lip while watching Aziraphale from the corner of eyes trained forward. The Bentley lurched from the curb. 

Aziraphale watched, puzzled, as the faint pink high on Crowley's cheekbones bloomed. 

“Crowley-” he began, hesitant. 

Crowley ducked his head and buried his fingers into his loosely hanging hair to scratch at the nape of his neck. “Er. Where are we going?” 

Emboldened over Crowley's abrupt shyness, Aziraphale reached for his elbow. “ _Kawauso._ It's been owned by the same family since opening. I've known Obaasan forever.” 

“You'll have to guide me.” He grinned, sheepish, and in that expression he saw the Crowley that defied the Demon reputation much of his publicity seemed to bang on about. “Sorry. I'm so used to apologizing for wearing last season's fashion when I'm out with someone.” He said it briskly, like it was to be expected, like his behavior was an aberration to those in his circle of peers. 

A piece of Aziraphale's heart ached for him. “I clearly don't have an issue with vintage, my dear. For heaven's sake, please don't apologize.”

“Oh yeah, I saw that.”

“Saw what?” Aziraphale smoothed the coat in his lap and verified their location outside the window. 

“Er. I. Don't make a big thing over it,” Crowley mumbled. Then his eyes narrowed, and he glared at a nearby car and hit the gas to swerve. “You can't park there, you daft cow!” 

“Crowley!” By instinct, Aziraphale scrabbled for a handhold, his heart kicking wildly. 

“Whoops. Forgot for a moment.” He remained overly focused on the road to make up for it. After a few minutes, he swayed his head some as if he needed to shake his words loose. “About the other thing. You weren't open, you weren't at the bakery-”

“Well I know you went there again. Goodness,” Aziraphale exclaimed just as bright as he felt inside at the memory. “Mrs. Fowler said they experienced an amazing uptick in business thanks to you!”

“I asked this time, promise!”

“What does it have to do with older clothing? Oh, left up here, please.”

“So yeeeeah,” he drawled out. He tilted his head to meet Aziraphale's eyes briefly and returned to the road ahead. “You weren't there, so then I was off to this scuzzy swap shop, where- angel, I don't know if you realize this, but that man's got a hard-on for you.”

“Crowley!” he scolded though a burst of laughter. “He's tried to woo me before,” he reminisced. A decent businessmen to work with, he was, but Aziraphale felt little attraction to the man. 

“Woo.” Crowley cackled, his previous mood forgotten. “Woo. Tell me he said exactly this.” Here was the smirk Aziraphale anticipated for earlier. 

“He did.” 

Crowley seemed to find the confirmation even more amusing. “Anyhow, I put the fear of the Demon into him- which I'm sorry to say he didn't recognize me. But your tailor did,” he added in a sing song tease. He turned his head again so Aziraphale was the sole focus of that sinful leer. It had to be only seconds but felt eternal. 

“He did?” Aziraphale said weakly. Crowley'd stopped at his tailor's? The tailor he'd gossiped with over Crowley perhaps _a tad explicitly_. He _had_ been there that morning for measurements once he'd exchanged some books at _Fiddlesticks_. He'd dallied there, casually chatting, while he snuck in a few signatures in books prior to handing them over to Anathema for clients. And while Anathema and Newt were jewels, sometimes the opinion of a longtime acquaintance as gay as Aziraphale was born was... illuminating. “Turn here and it'll be on your left. And. Er. What did he...what'd he say?”

Crowley wiggled the fingers on one hand as a tease. “Wouldn't you like to know,” he murmured low and sultry, only his eyes cutting to him this time in challenge. “We shared a few _secrets_ over you. How I found you at the park.” He practically oozed smugness. 

Aziraphale barely held back his shiver at Crowley's tone. Wait, he thought with growing suspicion. “I...uh...I thought you just happened to be walking 'round St. James after realizing I wasn't in?” 

Crowley's head hunched lower and his eyes went shifty. The smug grin disappeared. “OH LOOK. This is it, right?” He pulled in and parked with far more concentration than he'd shown the entire trip. 

Aziraphale side-eyed him, but only in an attempt to wrest control over the fizzy joy bubbling in his chest. Crowley had all but admitted to wandering around town half-asleep in search of him. In Aziraphale's mind, a fountain of pebbles clattered upon the scale in favor of opportunity. It was almost romantic, if he dared label it. 

Libras tended to be incurable romantics in general, Aziraphale mused as he lead Crowley toward the discreet rear entrance. He hadn't really connected how this trait might surface in someone famous with unlimited opportunities for romance. He was so lost in his thoughts, he hardly noticed he'd reached for Crowley's hand at some point until he neared the door and promptly blushed. “I.” he began without knowing where the sentence was meant to go. 

Crowley made a vague, questioning sound. When Aziraphale turned and looked upward to assess his expression, Crowley's blissful and charming smile had returned. Like he wanted to be here with Aziraphale. Like he was outright chuffed to be standing outside this tiny neighborhood spot, his hand in Aziraphale's, for a quiet evening out at a local favorite and a museum instead of some high-end event. 

“Now this is my go-to home for sushi, I'll have you know,” he said as he guided Crowley in, finally needing to drop his hand. “Don't go spreading it around,” he added, uncertain if he was serious. 

“Nah.” Crowley looked around the room with interest. The walls were painted a deep burgundy while many of the darker stained furnishings were trimmed in a similar color. Folkart and photography of otters filled the walls, some adorable and some fancifully dressed for battle. “I've learned my lesson,” Crowley said eventually. “I still think it was worth the reward.” His focus went right to him, shockingly tender. 

Aziraphale nearly preened under the regard. 

He rarely went to _Kawauso_ without Anathema or Newt, especially in the evening, so when Obaasan caught sight of him with a cheerful, “Aziraphale!” and offered a wobbly embrace, he unthinkingly answered her respectfully in his highly accented Japanese. He requested a quiet booth, one he favored. 

“ _And you bring this handsome one here without calling me ahead of time?_ ” she scolded him in Japanese. 

“ _It was sudden._ ” He glanced over at Crowley, who was watching with wide eyes and a crooked smile. 

“ _I'll tell Kurt to make you something special._ ” She nodded, and just as Aziraphale felt some relief, she gave Crowley a very obvious once over. “ _If I was fifty years younger, I'd climb him like a tree! Now go on, you know where._ ” She laughed and patted Aziraphale on the shoulder before shuffling toward the kitchen. 

“Sorry,” he was able to choke out through his astonishment. Good lord. “That's Grandmother,” he explained through his flustered state. “She and her late husband opened this place years ago before sushi was trendy, and she's just been Obaasan to everyone as long as I've known her.”

Crowley leaned inward and slipped an arm around his waist. “You brilliant little bastard,” he breathed into Aziraphale's ear. “You picked this spot to show off for me, didn't you?” 

“It wasn't intentional!” Aziraphale said, very much affected by that breathy voice. Crowley's body was lean and warm and his words sweetly alluring. He'd been especially hands-on this evening, and Aziraphale was elated and terrified in equal measures. 

“Mmmm hmmmm. Sure.” He slid away with apparent reluctance upon reaching the booth. 

Aziraphale immediately squashed down the voice in his head taunting, _once he gets what he wants, he'll be gone._ A handful of weighted thoughts he attempted to halt trickled slowly onto the scale-pan of apprehension. 

“If there's something you'd like, we could add it, but I tend to trust the cook's specialties.”

“Whatever will be fine.” Crowley seemed unable to settle without touching everything in his place setting. “I have fitting coming up for a photoshoot in Paris. 'S a bit more forgiving, so I can eat.”

Aziraphale wisely allowed any commentary on Crowley's eating habits slide. “Paris! Oh, I haven't been since I was little!” And this wasn't the most ideal conversation subject either, he realized belatedly. 

“Yeah, Uriel Asante- old mentor of mine- set up shop there. Gotta flight out to Paris this week. I'll be in Brussels next week for a thing and then with Warlock at some charity football match in Birmingham somewhere in between.” He leaned forward some; Aziraphale had no idea how Crowley'd managed to fold himself into the booth and still appear relaxed. “What's with all the otters?” 

“Not sure.” Aziraphale looked over at the watercolor that'd caught Crowley's eye. “I've never asked, but it might just be a nod at the restaurant name, kawauso- otter.”

“Kawauso,” Crowley echoed. Then he flashed a quick, dirty grin. “Sooo. You been to Japan with your _tongue-skills_?” The grin gentled. “I did an fantastic shoot in Nara prefecture somewhere full of cherry blossoms. really peaceful. Hair was dyed black for it. I liked it so much I kept it for a while.” 

Aziraphale glanced around, avoiding Crowley's inviting gaze while an uneasy pressure formed in his throat. “No, no. I always meant to. I really don't go anywhere now.” He hadn't even considered it since since the crash, though his ability to read and speak in English, French, and Japanese had survived his brain injury nearly untouched. 

Crowley waved it away. “I'm all over. Love it! Don't love missing my boys, but I never lucked out as a foster kid in a family that went on holiday. Lucifer cut back on his travel after Warlock was born 'n even more when his contract was up. He's able to take the boys instead of needing the Nanny so much.”

They both noticed their food arriving at the same time and cleared space on the table. Aziraphale needed the interruption. Crowley was really just on another level of existence from Aziraphale, wasn't he? Gallivanting the world, elegant and impeccable, and either on or within the arms of various people who seemed equally sophisticated, at least from the photos on Anathema's mobile.

The Crowley dining with him was friendly and approachable, his sensuality apparent and captivating with every gesture. The photographs revealed an intimidating, glamorous star, far away and untouchable, burning brightly. No wonder he'd stolen so many eyes and hearts. 

Opportunity.

Apprehension. 

“Wow. They got a nice thing goin' here, don't they,” Crowley admired and stuck his finger with unabashed abandon right into the shared pot of sauce for a taste. He was clearly going for a true flavor assessment with a thoughtful scrunch to his nose rather than anything flirtatious when he dabbed his fingertip against his tongue. “That's sweeter than I expected!” He looked absolutely delighted. 

He was ridiculous. He was unpolished at his core.

Aziraphale was smitten. 

Their meal and conversation continued, turning to current events. At one point, Aziraphale caught Crowley's sly half-smile aimed over his shoulder. When he turned, he realized some of the staff, people he'd known for years, peeking around the kitchen entrance at them. One of them waved and another gave him a thumbs up when they noticed Aziraphale staring. Obaasan winked in an exaggerated fashion. He experienced a flush from ears to knees. Why'd he think he was ready to invite Crowley to one of his safe spaces again? When he turned back, Crowley was watching him with a soft look in his eyes, his chin resting on the heel of his hand and his teeth a flash of bright white in his teasing grin. 

Ah. That was why. 

Eventually, they took their leave and made their way through London to the museum. Crowley's responses to Aziraphale's comments over the upcoming exhibit became wordless sounds. He drifted further into a heavy silence while he hunted elusive parking. When Aziraphale stepped away from the car and patted the inner pocket of his coat for the tickets, he noticed Crowley hadn't moved. He circled the Bentley. 

“Alright?” He caught himself anxiously twisting the envelope in his hand. Why hadn't he recognized something was wrong? His chattering must have seemed callous. 

Crowley sat with the Bentley door wide open, partially hanging off the seat with one leg sprawled outward and the other still in the vehicle. His head dipped forward so his hair curtained around his face. “I cause a stir whenever I'm recognized. Remember St. James? That was a only a handful of people.” His earlier cheer had faded from his voice, and he shook his head. “I wasn't really thinking when I agreed to join you here. Jus' wanted to-” the words drifted off into a mumble. 

“Crowley?” Aziraphale's heart hammered in his chest. He blinked eyes gone too wide. Oh god. Crowley didn't want to be caught where he might be linked to someone as unsuitable as Aziraphale. Or he was still stressed from the other day and here Aziraphale was dragging him into a public space. Or he'd had time to think on the way over and reassessed how much pudge there really was to Aziraphale when he'd briefly wrapped an arm around Aziraphale's quite ample middle.

He shut his eyes to block out the distractions of the world while he went into a tailspin. While some of his fears were valid, were they all really that sensible? Hadn't he settled this? Hadn't he measured the opportunities against his apprehensions upon the scales and found himself still willing to give it all a chance? His breathing devolved into stressed panting and a tremble overtook his hands so strong he had to shove them into his pockets. 

This was madness. He was better than this. He _knew_ better. Five- he kept his eyes squeezed shut but thought of the Bentley, the packed street they were on, the rich coloring of the sushi restaurant walls, Crowley's forest green shirt from the photo he'd sent, his reflection only hours ago. Four- he heard the soft hum of traffic, distant murmured voices, a burst of laughter, a door slam. Three- his feet touched solid on the pavement, his fingers upon the crinkly feel of the jute rope in his pocket, his shirtcuffs brushing his wrists. Two- and he could inhale deeply now, no more panicked breathlessness- he smelled the dampness of wet road, a waft of meat and spice from a nearby cafe. One- he licked at his lips, calm now, tasting the residue saltiness leftover from his meal. 

Much better. Breathe. 

Before opening his eyes to face the world, to face whatever Crowley's reaction might be to his whole, sordid panic attack and recovery, he summoned an image of the constellation Libra, ascensio recta fifteen hours, declination of negative fifteen degrees, seventh sign of the zodiac. Thought of the scales he'd imagined, pitting all his apprehensions against the opportunities presented by opening his heart to Crowley. Thought of how he'd only added the weight of both to his shoulders instead. 

And then he upended it all so it fragmented into sparkling bits across the universe of his mind like a newborn galaxy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> small sensitivity warning- Aziraphale has a panic attack in this chapter. He deals with it by using a sensory grounding technique I learned as the 5,4,3,2,1 method. 
> 
> Recovery from severe injury or illness or dealing with ongoing mental health/chronic illness is a journey with steps forward and setbacks. It's important to celebrate even minor achievements, especially when others or you have been wondering if it's worth it to be proud of something others accomplish easily. It's worth it. 
> 
> During the beta process, I changed the knot Aziraphale is fiddling with here to the Surgeon's knot as a little wink to Michael Sheen's Prodigal Son character. 
> 
> Basic Astronomical location of Libra from NASA.


	18. A Fairytale's Pace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for choosing to read this story! I read every comment and do a little dance in my head for every kudos. 
> 
> I don't normally post chapters this close together, but this one returned from beta without many changes. And then I accidentally find-and-replaced every Aziraphale with Alphabetize on Open Office so that was fun to find in the Ao3 preview. 
> 
> We are a little more than1/3 through with this story now!

*

_Leo-- The Lion in the Wizard of Oz was on a quest to seek a heart. This echoes what the Leo man is looking for — a partner to share the hunt with, someone to complement and complete him. In a relationship, he is utterly devoted, completely loyal, and fiercely protective. The Leo man can be almost kittenish when he is in a secure relationship, playful and mischievous with his mate. The ideal partner for a Leo man is someone who is his match in strength, confidence, generosity, and warmth. A partner must be worthy of his prestige and bring their own special cachet to the relationship._

*

“Aziraphale. Aziraphale? Hey.” 

Aziraphale slit his eyes open only to see the shadowed notch where Crowley's slender neck met the even edges of clavicles barely peeking from his unbuttoned collar. He stood so close Aziraphale could track the scent of his cologne. He must have zoned out long enough for Crowley to scramble up out of the Bentley and over to where Aziraphale had silently broken apart on the nearby pavement. 

“Oh, sorry,” he breathed, the words light as if an enormous burden had crumbled to dust. His eyes darted upwards and met the worry in Crowley's. 

“You looked a little...unsteady,” Crowley said softly. He stepped back some so Aziraphale didn't need to crane his neck as much. 

“I'm fine,” he reassured. He reassessed and found it wasn't a lie. He offered a shaky smile devoid of any sorrow. “I needed a moment. This is all a part of me, I'm afraid. I didn't mean to inconvenience you.”

Crowley's hand snatched Aziraphale's from where it now hung loosely at his side. His trembling was near imperceptible by now, the sensory technique doing it's job. “Sod that! I've upset you. You're a hell of a lot better dealing with some of this shit than I am.” His tone melded a blend of concern and admiration which Aziraphale found baffling. Crowley's fingers squeezed his hand tight. Aziraphale found his proximity and height comforting rather than anything overbearing. 

“I hadn't considered how intentionally you must need to plan your public appearances.” Aziraphale traced his eyes over Crowley's sharp, smooth chin, to his pouted lower lip, still stained a dark wine shade of lip liner even after an entire meal. To his strong nose and luminous eyes, so heavy with care for Aziraphale. “It'll be fine. We'll find something else.”

Crowley shook his head in a trace movement. Speaking nearly at a whisper but with great seriousness, he said, “It's not always like that. I go about my day. Don't always get mobbed and people'll often be polite. I just don't wanna ruin this all. Don't mistake that for not...you know... wanting to be around you. Don't wanna drag you into the spotlight.” 

The surrounding din of traffic and pedestrians seemed muted now from when Aziraphale had concentrated to regain control. Others were parking in the scarce street-side spaces in hopes of avoiding a paylot. Evening at the museum tended to be a popular event, but no one seemed to give mind to the duo standing mid-pavement, unmoving and joined by the hand like some '50's Hollywood still shot. 

The intense worry in Crowley's eyes needed soothing, and he deserved an explanation. “It's a bit startling to understand the reality of your day-to-day,” Aziraphale explained carefully.

“I mighta said something earlier instead of scaring the shit out of you!” he hissed, clearly still blaming himself. A few strands of hair grew damp enough in the light drizzle to stick to his temple and line the curve of his jaw. Aziraphale's fingers itched to tuck them behind Crowley's ear, but he refrained. 

“I don't blame you for having concerns. I have them too. Quite obviously.” He ducked his head to arrest any sort of blushing in it's tracks, then turned back, determined. “But look lively now, dearest. There's nothing we can't handle,” he hastened to add when Crowley's pout increased. 

Like a wick going up in flame, Crowley's entire expression went incandescent. The admittedly enticing pout slipped into a wicked curl. He squeezed Aziraphale's fingers once more before releasing his hand. 

“We're gonna figure this out, bookangel,” he husked, keeping his eyes locked to Aziraphale's as he dashed back around the car, only breaking his gaze when he ducked in. Aziraphale followed after a moment, confused, only to meet him as he popped back out with a silly baseball cap featuring some sports team outside of Aziraphale's realm of experience. 

“It's Warlock's from somewhere,” he explained as he bundled his hair in an elastic so it rest in a knot at the nape of his neck. “No sunglasses, too obvious,” he muttered, his eyes darting around. “Oh! Lend me your coat!”

Aziraphale cocked his head, bemused, but did as Crowley asked and handed over his camel colored Chesterfield style Mackintosh. He stood aside the Bentley in only his vest and shirtsleeves as he had when they'd first left the shop but didn't feel a chill in the evening air in spite of seeing an occasional puff of his breath. The mist of light rain softened the glow cast by streetlamps and and shop signs, lending the surroundings an ethereal quality. 

Crowley shucked his designer jacket like it was nothing, slung it into the backseat, and slipped on Aziraphale's. It fit baggy and shapeless and hit too high on the hip. His wrists and hands stuck out from sleeves that hung off him like drab bat wings. He spread his arms and swanned some, loose-limbed and hips swinging in a strut that took him away and back to Aziraphale. Crowley somehow coaxed Aziraphale's bulky coat to sway with a fluidity he'd never been able to manage himself. 

“Devilry,” Aziraphale accused with good humor. 

Crowley spun in place when he returned to Aziraphale's side. “Well?” he asked with an inviting quirk to his lips. He looked entirely silly and overly pleased with himself. 

A glaze of longing shimmered over Aziraphale. Crowley in his coat. As if Aziraphale had gallantly draped his own protection over Crowley. Within moments, he found himself fussing over the fall of the fabric, fingers adjusting the lapel just so. “It'll do,” Aziraphale reassured, satisfied. There was really no way to camouflage Crowley's sort of beauty, he thought. The sight of him waiting there, pulling uselessly at the too-short cuffs, turned something over Aziraphale's heart. He would salvage this evening to the best of his ability. 

They made their way to the museum and entered without any suspicious glances. Once in possession of the itinerary for the evening, Aziraphale insisted they join a guided tour on the newly opened Middle Eastern textile exhibit. Aziraphale wasn't sure if it would hold Crowley's interest, but was pleased to note he appeared interested and even asked questions. When the tour ended, they wandered throughout the building at their leisure. Little moonlight penetrated the overcast sky to make it through the glass skylights, leaving thin museum lighting the only source of brightness. It cast an aura of eerie shadow over ancient sculptures and sarcophagai. 

The silence between them felt different, companionable. Other than the occasional whispered commentary, there was no awkwardness. No babbling to fill space. Crowley indulged in guarded and frequent scans of the exhibit halls they would enter, but it proved unnecessary. They were left alone. Otherwise, he appeared untroubled at being alongside Aziraphale while appearing entirely unfashionable and enjoying something 'the Demon' likely was meant to eschew for his image. The thought smoothed over most of Aziraphale's lingering nervousness. 

After a general exploration of three floors, they circled back to the newly opened special exhibit. Aziraphale studied Crowley's reflection in the protective casing over a fragment of ancient silk. 

“To think, we're some of the first in the world to see some of this stuff,” Crowley said in awe. He kept his voice just above a whisper and hovered his hand over the glass housing.

“Beyond the curators, we are! Out-of-hours nights for subscribers are why I keep up my membership.” 

After some silent beats, Aziraphale's pulled his gaze from the case to Crowley's profile. Crowley was still studying the silk almost reverently with curiosity in his eyes and lips parted in fascination. To Aziraphale, Crowley seemed the most at peace when lost within his own thoughts. “What- ah. What are you thinking?” he couldn't help asking, though he loathed to disturb Crowley's concentration. 

Crowley glanced around as if guilty and then touched the glass in a slow caress. “Back then,” he whispered so softly Aziraphale barely caught it. “Do you think people had the same things to worry about? The same feeling like the world pressed down on them?”

The tentative uncertainty of his question plucked at Aziraphale's heart. “Oh Crowley, of course they did.” He stepped closer to offer a sense of comfort. “Maybe not exactly the same, but I'm certain they worried.” 

“I doubt they were as desperately needy.” Aziraphale could almost feel the self-admonishment lacing Crowley's words. 

Crowley glanced upward and off into the distance, the baseball cap nearly tumbling away. Exhibits on this floor stretched upward through several stories of the museum; Crowley currently seemed to be staring at a large tomb of rock featuring carved friezes of figures going about their life. Aziraphale took in Crowley's wistful profile rather than join his study of the distant stone. He held his tongue, hoping his silence would encourage Crowley to share. 

“Sometimes, I'm alone with my telescope and the universe,” Crowley finally whispered. “Or on the road in the evening, and I see how big and old the world is. How the light I'm seeing might have burned out years ago and only got to earth now. It's stupid, but I wonder what my life'd be like if I'd been born in different parts of history.” He pulled his attention away and met Aziraphale's eyes. Aziraphale flustered some at being caught staring but didn't break their gaze.

“Since my accident, I spend more time thinking about the future I almost didn't have,” he said, a portion of his mind on the aspect of astrology focused on predicting the future. “But I must say,” he gestured at the gorgeous silk encased before them, “this is much prettier. I have little fondness for what people predict we'll be _wearing_ in the future!” 

Crowley poked gently at Aziraphale's shoulder. “You would've loved one of those one armed sheet things that was on all those vases in the hall we passed through, wouldn't you?” 

“That's an exomie style of chiton, and no thank you,” he sniffed. “Though I might be picturing you in a doublet and hose now, I hope you understand.” His attempt at playful humor landed, thankfully, and Crowley rewarded him with a brief, affectionate lean against his side. 

“I could pull off Elizabethan,” he gloated. “ _'I pray thee, give it me. I know a bank where the wild thyme blows, Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows, Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine, With sweet musk-roses and with eglantine.'_ ”

“Now who's full of surprises,” he praised, utterly captivated. He hoped sincerely Crowley couldn't hear the sudden intoxication of desire bathing his words. He splayed his palm flat upon the smooth glass of the nearby case in hopes it might settle his intensity. 

“I bet I'd make a smashing muse posing nude for a renaissance painter or sculptor,” Crowley added with an exaggerated leer, cottoning on to Aziraphale's mood. He found it gratifying, but the outrageous flirting almost made him miss Crowley's authentic, revealing words from moments before. 

“I think you would've been sensational no matter the era you'd been born,” he was helpless to say. “But-” and he pushed beyond his cowardice to rest his hand upon Crowley's chest, right above his heart. “Selfishly, I'm rather pleased you were born in this particular time period, if it's alright with you.” 

The way Crowley's dazed expression settled on him with his amber eyes near glowing in the diffuse museum lighting sparked off a crackling, electric shiver throughout Aziraphale. They remained near the exhibit of Persian silk while others passed around them until he watched as Crowley's eyebrows shifted some in concern. Crowley's attention drifted over Aziraphale's shoulder. 

“Someone's watching,” he hissed. The furrow between his brows deepened. “Don't know if I gave myself away or what.” 

Aziraphale's spine stiffened. He clenched the fabric of Crowley's- _his_ coat beneath his hand for a brief moment and released it. He'd have to get used to this. Needed to show Crowley he could handle a supermodel's fame with grace if he even had a slip of a chance to remain in Crowley's orbit. He shot a look over his shoulder at the suspect only to have his wariness dissolve. 

“Oh, my dear,” he murmured with relief, “That's only my ex from years ago. He's worked here for ages. I wasn't sure I'd see him as he travels so often for the museum.”

Robert approached them with a friendly smile. He wore tweed upon his thin frame and the sort of bow tie Aziraphale normally favored. Since Aziraphale had last encountered him, he'd gone somewhat silver at his temples. Aziraphale attempted without success to recall how old the man's twins were by now, likely the encouragement for that gray. 

“Aziraphale!” he greeted rather too jovially for the echoing space. “How nice to see you out and about for once rather than shelved away like one of your books!” His hands were stuffed into his pockets, but his general affable demeanor remained unchanged from before. The comment landed as gentle ribbing rather than anything cruel. Aziraphale had been the one guilty of callousness in their break-up. 

He flashed a tentative smile and glanced to the side. Crowley had cocked his head like a bird of prey and somehow, even bogged down in Aziraphale's frumpy coat, his posture reflected his dignity and confidence. 

Aziraphale could only yield to the whole meeting. Why not face this as well on such a roller-coaster of an evening? “Robert! The textile exhibit is really quite lovely. Congratulations!” 

“I wondered if you'd be out for this one. Wasn't sure _I'd_ even be here. I was needed in Greece yesterday! But you know how that goes,” he tacked on and laughed. Aziraphale managed a feeble chuckle. He clenched his fingers at his waist and was surprised to feel Crowley's hand touch his back in support. 

Oh this was foolishness. They were all grown adults here and Aziraphale was not the same person he'd been years ago. “Robert, this is-” he paused and flicked his gaze over to try and read Crowley's body language. Though it was still too early to be sure, he thought of Crowley's explanation on how he preferred to be addressed between strangers and friends coupled with his general desire to not be noticed this evening and landed on, “this is Anthony. Robert's a curator for special collections here. We met through Anathema a long time ago.” 

“Charmed,” said Crowley, and he did say it in a rather meaningful fashion. Aziraphale wouldn't have guessed he was stressed without the hard press of his hand. 

Robert's mind worked quick as always, and once his eyes had darted about them, he grinned. “You're shooting high there, Zira!” He laughed, his shoulders bouncing with his humor. “Because he's so much taller than you, get it?” A thoughtful expression appeared on his face. “Anthony, have we met? You seem awfully familiar. Do you work with Anathema, perhaps? How is the lovely lady anyhow? I thought about her and Newton while in Glasgow a few weeks ago.”

Aziraphale found Robert's straightforwardness to still be overwhelming even now as it'd been years ago. “Still traveling for work?” he somehow managed and leaned back into Crowley's hand for support. Crowley didn't say much, just remained steady. 

“Oh, I'm never here. One cannot learn from books alone! I lucked out Christopher is so tolerant of my travel and willing to accompany me since he's with the girls so often.” There was a minuscule dig buried in there Aziraphale detected but forgave. 

“How fortunate,” was all he could answer; their biggest disagreement had to do with how often Robert traveled without warning and how frequently Aziraphale had rejected the invitation to join along. His tone sounded unintentionally distressed to his own ears and triggered Crowley to shift closer to his side. 

“I travel all the time too. Was just in Greece a few weeks ago,” Crowley said abruptly. 

Robert's eyebrows shot up. His look toward Aziraphale was laden with pity, but when he turned to Crowley, he chuckled. “Good luck with that working out between you two, I suppose. You must be newer in Zira's life.” He elbowed Aziraphale gently and shook his head almost sorrowfully. “Our ol' boy here used to think anyone who spends time outside the confines of the M25 or stays out past bedtime is far too wild.”

“That's not-” Aziraphale mumbled as shame flushed through his entire being. There were so many unspoken circumstances involved, he'd been so early in his recovery back then, and hadn't he been fine with Anathema's frequent travels? She hadn't been phased when he rejected her offers to accompany her. Coupled with his earlier meltdown, Crowley was going to think he required far too delicate of handling to be a proper partner for a busy celebrity. 

“But you seem more abreast of the world, Anthony,” Robert was saying when Aziraphale paid attention again. “I'm headed to Thessaloniki for some hearty exploration. Where in Greece did you stay?”

“Nisyros.” Crowley's voice sounded oddly controlled. When Aziraphale glanced upward, he found him to be entirely focused upon Robert, his lips curled into a smirk. His hand was knotted tight in the back of Aziraphale's shirt now. “Was rather exciting to frolic in the crater of a volcano. A little _dangerous_.” His mouth hit the consonants hard in a way Aziraphale hadn't heard from him before. An aura of tension filled the air of which Robert seemed oblivious. 

Aziraphale split his attention between the two as if he were at a tennis match. 

“I'm sure it's a sight, but don't be silly,' Robert dismissed. “Nisyros is a scenic but tame and quiet little island for the sort of visitors who need that sedate pace. Greece has far more excitement elsewhere than a handful of insignificant ruins and a sleepy volcano.”

“Oh I wouldn't write off anything or _anyone_ quiet and sedate.” He leaned forward, managing to loom over Robert without ever taking a step in his direction. His words became a low, silky hiss. “Those are the ones biding their time only to explode brilliantly when you least expect it.” 

Robert's eyes widened, and he actually took a step back. He folded his arms before nodding at both Crowley and Aziraphale. “Well, I'll let you both get on with exploring. Do see the Rosetta stone, will you? It's the staff's favorite.” He nodded congenially at Aziraphale. Then he paused to narrow his eyes in thought at Crowley before nodding at him as well and taking his leave. 

Still shaking some from the mild burst of adrenaline, Aziraphale needed to move from Crowley's touch and recompose himself. “Sorry about that,” he babbled without thought. “I knew there'd be a chance he was here but sort of... forgot?” Or hadn't even put thought toward this particular encounter, if he was honest with himself. 

Crowley rolled his neck with an audible pop and cracked his shoulders so the sleeves of Aziraphale's coat flopped. “What are you sorry for _Zira_? Bloke don't seem too bad other than his sense of humor and the branch shoved right up his-” 

Aziraphale stiffled a nervous snort and cut in, “He's not, truly, though he never did drop that horrible 'Zira, I see,” he added with a cringe. “We were together years ago. He was running, and I waddled behind.” He aimlessly began walking and veered toward the adjoining exhibit hall as if he'd meant to head there. Crowley joined him without question. 

“He's well traveled and people like him. He makes appearances all over the world. But I wouldn't go anywhere with him. He-uh,” he paused near a cart where a crowd was gathering around an educator with a display of various spherical brass objects. “He stuck it out longer than expected.” He trailed off as the similarities between Crowley's life and Robert's dawned on him. The illumination was not pleasant.

“Stuck it out,” Crowley was grumbling. “Like it's a chore to have individual tastes.” He stuffed just his fingertips into his very narrow pockets and glanced around the growing crowd of museum guests. “Oh this is the thing on the Persian astrolabe on loan from the Whipple. Let's hang around for it?”

Aziraphale only nodded. They drifted into silence as the educator began speaking. His attention remained on Crowley rather than the woman explaining how one used the astrolabe for astronomical measurements. Crowley seemed transfixed. Even shoddily hidden beneath layers, he still couldn't disguise his height and general bearing, but even more so, he carried himself differently than others. With his eager expression there existed an enigmatic aspect about him no bundle of cloth could hide. Aziraphale couldn't help noticing the admiring glances aimed Crowley's way, none seeming to latch onto his identity but nevertheless able to seek out an attractive man when they saw one. 

What in the world was Crowley doing here with Aziraphale? Because he'd gone momentarily silly and asked, Aziraphale reminded himself, and Crowley had enthusiastically accepted. Robert had enjoyed Aziraphale's company too once upon a time, had responded with interest to Aziraphale's overtures. Seeing him again brought back upsetting realities. 

“I'll be right back, finding the loo,” he whispered to Crowley and feigned a search for it as he removed himself from the crowd. 

“Aziraphale,” he murmured to himself in the midst of a memory of one of Robert's disappointment-filled speeches from nearly a decade past, “ _you're only in your mid-twenties but you act like an old man. No, it's worse! I work with old men unafraid to seek out their next adventure. You're too sedate for me. Too anxious.”_

Nice of his shredded brain to keep hold of _that_ particular memory and not simple facts he required for day-to-day functioning. Besides, comparing Crowley and Robert would lead to no good and was unfair. 

He pursed his lips and turned to a display near a sculpture to fake an interest in the educational description. Crowley gave the impression of energetic youth with unlimited potential. Aziraphale, on the other hand, felt as though he were a doddering Colonel Brandon without the exciting backstory, an 'absolute old bachelor on the wrong side of four-and-thirty' in his case. Had Crowley weighed him in his mind the same as Marianne did the Colonel? Did he look upon Aziraphale 'though his face was not handsome, his countenance was sensible, and his address was particularly gentlemanlike'. A disappointing but tolerable option after his exciting love affair with someone handsome and exciting like Lucifer? A thin headache echoing his concussion pain manifested itself from wherever it'd been hiding these days, and he turned from the glare of a spotlight highlighting the marble bust he'd stopped near. 

The hand slipping around his waist shocked him into sucking in a startled breath. 

“Not one thing on this plaque about-” he paused and eyeballed the paragraphs before him, “- a Persian bust should be putting that look on your face, bookangel.” Crowley leaned his head close to whisper, nuzzling Aziraphale's jaw. 

Aziraphale shivered and allowed Crowley to gently guide him into a shadowed area near a larger sculpture. “Was nothing. Lights are hurting my eyes a bit.” It was partially the truth. 

“Do you want my sunglasses?”

Aziraphale softened. “No, it'll be fine. Hits me sometimes.”

“Coulda been running into your slightly pompous ex, you know.” Crowley grumbled. “Mine never fails to give me a migraine.” 

“Oh he's not that bad.” Aziraphale slipped his glasses off to massage the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes, unable to handle Crowley's attention. “He was right, after all.”

“Hmf,” said Crowley. 

Aziraphale sighed but selfishly took comfort in Crowley's arm encircling his waist. “ It was nearly a decade ago, Crowley. He had a different 'happily ever after' in mind.” He slipped his glasses back on, and Crowley's face returned into focus. 

“Good.” The word dropped with a growl into the private space they'd created. Aziraphale felt it curl around his spine.

“Is it?” Something fluttered in his chest.

“It's all fairy tales, angel. In my case, the paparazzi, well... people,” Crowley began, soft and hesitant. Aziraphale waited quietly and rested his hands on the coat still loosely draped over Crowley's body. “They wagered on whether I'd fall out of favor with the world when I left Lucifer. They all wanted their fairy tale romance of the Demon and the Morningstar. But it wasn't _my_ fairy tale.” 

Again, Aziraphale wondered how caged Crowley must feel at times in spite of what seemed like so much opportunity. Expectations on his love life. Discouraged in his hobbies. Their earlier discussion on ancient worries returned to mind, and he blurted, “Same prison, different century.” 

“What?”

“Nothing,” he croaked, a little mortified he'd spoken aloud. 

“Do you mind if we take a photo together for the boys?” Crowley asked with an an unusual hesitation. “I wouldn't put it on my social media, of course.” He said it with an air of reassurance, but the dark voice Aziraphale wrestled with poked out to jeer, _see, he doesn't really want to be seen with your frumpy self, you're an entertaining diversion but not worthy._

Aziraphale shoved his doubts down again, fighting to ignore them. “Oh, I wouldn't expect you'd want to post it public, in a silly baseball cap with my coat so baggy on you!” He attempted a smile, uncertain. 

Crowley thankfully seemed to not notice his struggle. “There's stuff the world has no business with, stuff I like to keep special to myself. It's hard. Everybody thinks they have all-access rights to me.” He held his mobile up and tapped several confusing icons on it. “It's strangers _and_ people close to me. My body, my career decisions, what I want. The only thing they seem to not give a shit about is my brain,” he huffed and ducked down some so his chin rested near Aziraphale's shoulder. 

“Seems wrong for someone to take advantage of the parts of you that suit their purpose and dismiss the parts not fitting in with the story they've built of you in their own head,” he said offhanded. When he pushed to his toes to get into frame and noticed Crowley's pleased expression on the little phone camera, he almost believed his own words. 

They remained at the museum only a little longer until Crowley eventually suggested they head home. When they pulled up to the bookshop in a spot not meant for parking, Crowley hopped out and circled the Bentley to open the door for him before Aziraphale could even try. 

“Crowley,” he murmured, feeling somewhat shy. 

“Nope. I've got a tradition to uphold now.” He held an arm out for Aziraphale like a gentleman, but he watched Aziraphale hungrily, like a predator, like Aziraphale was desirable. And even more so, like Aziraphale was worth it all in spite of his dithering. 

Aziraphale took it gingerly, his heart already thumping at his chest and all his thoughts a churning mess. He _wanted_. And he was _terrified_. 

As they approached his door, he made a decision he hoped wouldn't downgrade himself in Crowley's eyes. 

“I hope you'll understand if I don't invite you in yet,” he said, nearly breathless between his desire and anxiousness. He plucked at the lapels of his coat still swallowing Crowley's body and wondered why Crowley hadn't ditched it as he had the ballcap as soon as they'd returned to the car. 

Aziraphale attempted not to flinch at Crowley's quickly hidden flash of disappointment.

“No problem,” Crowley said airily. He took his time removing Aziraphale's coat and gently handed it over. 

Oh hell, thought Aziraphale with dismay. He _was_ doddering. He was too slow, he was always too slow, for Robert, for some others, now for Crowley. He needed to decide right now if he was going to push forward and risk his heart or melt back into the quiet, hiding behind the shadow of Agnes Nutter. 

“You're wonderful, Crowley, but it's all a bit unbelievable. You're life moves a little too fast for me.” The words scalded his tongue with their honesty. “And what happened today, when I needed a moment outside the museum? That's bound to happen again.”

Crowley took a step back but rather than draw away, he reached to rest his hands just above Aziraphale's hips. His smile was gentle, almost careful, and his eyes were piercing. 

“You're saying what you think you need to say.” He spoke so fervently Aziraphale felt struck. “I saw it right there in your face at the museum. You're telling me what you think you need to so I have an excuse to be done with you. Think I'm gonna get bored if you don't hop on the next plane with me to Milan like ol' Bobby? Think I'll run screaming because you freaked out some and wrestled it to the ground like a master? I got news for you. I'm the Demon, you know, you're not gonna scare me away so easily.” 

Aziraphale sucked in a sharp breath but remained still while Crowley's words clawed out his fears. He was pinned in place between Crowley's spread palms and urgent gaze. What was it within Crowley that goaded him into being brave where so many others had failed? 

His tension ebbed. He tried to push all his confused feelings he couldn't articulate into his eyes, into his expression. “I can't help but like you. And I'm sure you hear that all the time.” 

“Errryeagh, I do?” Even in the dim, overcast evening, Aziraphale could see the pink high on his cheekbones. But he didn't have long to wonder on it because Crowley swooped in and pressed his forehead against Aziraphale's, so close his breath steamed up Aziraphale's glasses. “It's _you_ I need to hear from and no one else.” 

Aziraphale's soft, “Oh!” hitched in his throat. One hand flew outward, grasping at air, the other nearly dropping his coat, and he draw back just enough for his lenses to clear up. Crowley was stubborn and astonishing and so beautiful standing in the bookshop doorway. Aziraphale had been hooked like a sea bass the moment Crowley'd shuffled into his shop with little Adam in hand, hadn't he? 

He balanced on his tip toes without thinking it over too hard and pressed his lips to Crowley's cheek. “Anthony Crowley. I very much would like to be with you,” he whispered, his words brushing warm skin. “If you don't mind my glacial pace,” he added as he dropped back down to flatfooted. He had to look downward to steady his excited trembling. 

Immediately, he felt Crowley's fingers touch at his chin. With the barest pressure, his attention was guided upward until he'd tipped his head toward Crowley's. He missed Crowley's expression because within moments, Crowley offered an achingly intense close-lipped kiss. “ _Luxurious_ pace,” Crowley breathed against Aziraphale's mouth, drawing out the word without pulling away. “Sounds so much nicer than glacial, doesn't it, my angel?” His arms were back around Aziraphale, pulling him flush. Aziraphale was helpless to reciprocate. “Slow can be sexy. Don't hafta be cold like ice.” His words were thick and lazy with a heat that licked like flame down to Aziraphale's toes. 

“I. Ye-. Se- I,” he stammered before finally knuckling down his haywire brain. “Blast it! Yes, much more appealing, my dearest, of course.” He stole his own brief kiss and drew back to calm his fiercely pounding heart. 

Crowley took this as a cue to step away. He licked at his lips and rocked on his heels while looking upward into the sky. After a moment, he focused back onto Aziraphale. With an uncertain waver in his voice, he asked, “Come to mine when I'm back from Brussels, will you? It's quiet. As much as it can be with a three year old. I'll make dinner. We'll watch a movie with the boys. Sedate. Simple. Just us, can forget about needing to skulk around away from cameras. The boys could get to know you outside of the shop.” 

Aziraphale felt his jaw drop as if he truly was the gaping fish hooked earlier on as he'd imagined. Crowley wanted him around his sons? He thought of Anathema's advice from what seemed like so long ago and the unfinished relationship books strewn about his shop. “Goodness,” he let slip out in shock. 

“Please,” Crowley coaxed, one hand outstretched as if Aziraphale might spin around and run away. He realized he _had_ taken a few startled steps backward. Now wasn't the time to put any doubt in Crowley's mind; his boys were part of the package just as much as his fame. 

“That would be lovely,” he settled on, summoning up a smile he hoped was soothing. “E-mail me the time and place, and I'll find a way there.” He wound up folding his hands behind his back to still their nervous flitting. This was a real thing. A relationship type step in Aziraphale's mind, a taste of commitment that could be. 

“Fantastic.” Crowley huffed a wry laugh. “I uh- feel a bit like an idiot and don't know what I'm doing,” he added mournfully, but then he grinned and shrugged. “I know it _seems_ like I'm on top of it all,” he began before his voice went soft, “but I'm not what you'd call skilled at this stuff.” The mortification in his expression grew along with his words. He used his chin to gesture toward his Bentley. “I'm gonna shut up and leave while I'm ahead.”

His grin returned when Aziraphale couldn't help giggling. “Hey. I'm sophisticated and outright dashing. You remember that when you wander back to your books wondering on the hot mess you've left outside your door.” He turned around once more as he stepped away. “So remember I'll be in Pairs this weekend, up north sometime the following week, and Brussels later that Thursday. I'll get any message you leave on my voicemail.” 

“Thank you for letting me know. I'll speak to you soon,” Aziraphale said to Crowley's retreating back, sneaking an admiring glance at his rear in those leather trousers because, really. Watching him pull away from the curb with few misgivings was a novel experience. Even with the specter of Agnes hovering, hope blossomed for the first time in it's purest sense. He was no more certain than yesterday anything would come of it. Tonight though, he finally felt confident it was all worth his best effort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cafe astrology for header. It's not really a horoscope predicting a future story event, more like an info dump for Leo qualities to mirror the Libra from the last chapter. I don't think I noted that on the last chapter. 
> 
> Aziraphale quotes from _Sense and Sensibility_ because Austen and also I always thought it was funny the film version I was introduced to had Alan Rickman as Colonel Brandon. If Marianne didn't want his ass at first cuz of his age and settled qualities, I'M RIGHT OVER HERE, YO. 
> 
> The bust Aziraphale is standing by reflects a lot of controversial things happening in archeology right now. It's was considered male and identified as Paris or Adonis, but the hairstyle, headdress, and veil are considered styles for women. They called it an error by the sculptor or symbolic of Persians trying to fit a Greek art style. They won't even consider it might be someone non-binary or anything other than a mistake. There's a lot of incidents in things being labeled as 'errors' or described away when it doesn't fit the narrow sanitized hetero white-christian narrative some archeologists and anthropologists try to shove history into all the time. /history rant. 
> 
> Crowley quotes _A Midsummer Night's Dream_ Act II scene 1 lines 627-631 by Oberon, King of the Fairies because I think I was going for some kind of Fairy theme in this chapter, IDK where my mind goes sometimes.


	19. Building Bridges

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aries Horoscope from cafe astrology (If you're an Aries, you might like to know that was today's general horoscope May 21 2020)
> 
> After talking with some people, I have decided to up the rating in view of some future chapters down the line. I wavered about it all early on between the M and E ratings, but just to be safe, I'm going with E after all.

*

_Aries- Today holds the promise of new insight into relationships, interests, and projects, dear Aries. The tendency is to do a lot of analyzing and sorting things out, particularly with feelings and affections. You may be making sense of old relationships. Or, you may be reviving old projects and receiving news that prompts a new perspective on a past matter. You could be drawn to a past project or study with renewed interest, or you might discover that a current course of study or venture is no longer fulfilling you. Conversations and thoughts tend to revolve around satisfaction levels, love, or complicated social situations as Mercury and retrograde Venus head into alignment. You might learn something new that gives you a little more clarity on a matter that has confused or even haunted you. Still, it's important to note that the picture may not be complete. So, while it's a strong time to do a redesign or review, it's better not to finalize things yet. Solving problems, particularly of the intellectual or mechanical variety, is in focus._

*

“Remain still.” 

Uriel's voice was sharp and businesslike from behind as Crowley watched the wall clock tick over another quarter hour of standing for the fitting. A gown this time, but he hadn't an opportunity to see anything beyond drawings and photographs of the muslin design on the dressform until today. 

As one of Celestial Bodies stars, Crowley rated his own prep room at their studio location. Not all models were so fortunate and shared a large space with their own assigned vanities. Music played softly in the background, some light classical he didn't quite recognize. His mind wasn't much with the present anyhow to notice. 

He hadn't been thinking the other night when he'd asked Aziraphale for his coat. Once snuggled into it though, he didn't want to give it back in spite of it's unshapely and off-the-rack look. It was Aziraphale's. And it'd still been warm from cradling parts of Aziraphale Crowley'd not yet been offered the opportunity to touch. A languid warmth slithered through his body at the memory, loose and sensual in a way that had him drifting his eyes shut in memory. 

“Crowley!”

He blinked and turned only his head, caught out. “Whoops.” 

“We're nearly finished. I'd like to be out of the building prior to Gabriel's return.”

“He and Michael are in a contract meeting across town with Ligur Camaleao.” he reassured. There was definitely bad blood between Uriel and Gabriel she'd hinted at before, but without context, he didn't dare comment. 

“Ligur's still here.” It was not a question, rather a confirmation. 

“Yeah.” Crowley'd modeled with him a few times. Grouchy bloke, vain, fabulous facial structure. Ligur had little sense of humor, but he worked hard and was goal-oriented. 

“I'm requesting he walk for me for the anniversary collection. I know it's early to cast. Anyone else you'd recommend I float an invite toward? I've cleared with the board to welcome former C.B. models, whatever Gabriel might think of it.”

Crowley considered. “Best ask Michael that. She knows everything.” 

Uriel nodded silently while reassuring she liked the flow of fabric over Crowley's chest. His collarbones would be exposed, as would a fair chunk of his sternum. Uriel's talent for sweet-talking the fabric into behaving on bodies non-traditionally offered certain styles endlessly fascinated Crowley. He enjoyed the wailing and fist-clenching of conservative groups wanting to police gender stereotypes. But really, he mostly thrilled in exquisitely made things, no matter how some would prefer all fashion to adhere to strict binary categories. 

“Michael's suggested we nail-down details out-of-office prior to our official C. B. meeting over the collaboration with Dagon for the celebration. I'm inclined to agree with her.” 

Crowley took advantage of the brief freedom when she turned to refresh her pins in order to scratch at his cheek. “It's your best shot at not having him layer on bullshit.” He froze back in position when she turned, but her gracefully arched eyebrow revealed she'd caught his movement. He flashed her a sheepish grin. “It's always when you _can't_ move that it itches them most,” he complained. 

Thankfully, he was rescued from her glare by the knock on the door. 

“Coming in!” Beatrice's voice echoed as they entered the room. “We need to discuss your 2020 calendar shoot in Brussels, demon-guy.” They glanced upward from an armful of folders toward both Crowley and Uriel. “Ah. Come back?” 

“Naah.” Crowley considered what he and Uriel'd just been discussing. “Beez. This is Uriel Asante. She was one of C.B.'s top models before you were brought aboard.” Uriel guided his arm into an awkward position he needed to hold. “Uriel, they're the one I've been talking about. Handled all the safety and aftermath of the whole hellset fire incident that made news last year? Where everyone else panicked? I wanna suggest looping them in.” 

Beatrice's expression became guarded. They closed the door behind them and stepped closer.“ 'Looping me in' sounds like you're leaving someone out,” they said, hesitant. 

Crowley allowed Uriel to reposition him once more. His spine was beginning to ache, and his left leg was going numb. A graceful lacing of chain crisscrossed the low-cut back in elegant patterning and brushed cold against his bared skin. From the look of things, the gown would look amazing on him when hemmed properly, but damn if this part wasn't dull as rusty nails. 

“We're not leaving Gabriel out,” he reassured, only able to tilt his head toward them. “We're just making it very hard for him to object once we present the best scenario to the benefit of everyone rather than just his own _interests_.”

“I might be keen. He's a douchebag who won't use my preferred pronouns. But he signs my paychecks since it's essentially his damn agency.”

Even with their clearly capable experience, Beatrice hadn't been promoted or offered executive production of an editorial shoot or even an amateur designer runway show, he realized. Gabriel had Beez scooting around, fussing with gruntwork on his calendar shoot instead, only to hand it off to someone else when they were done. Whether it was Gabriel's discomfort with an enby employee or Beez's short stature and obvious medical skin condition, the bias was a little hard to explain away without wondering if Gabriel promoted some of Celestial's staff by only their fuckability in his eyes. Crowley internally shriveled. So much had changed since the passing of Gabriel's father and his mother's retirement. Or maybe it was always there, and Gabriel just felt more comfortable flaunting it. Or even worse, Crowley hadn't noticed at first because he benefited from Gabriel's uncomfortable focus on him from the very beginning. 

He wondered if Gabriel would stoop so low as to object when faced with their collective proposal. A group of them banded together against him, even with the power of his family's legacy slapped all over the agency they developed and the board he held in his pocket. Before Crowley could open his mouth to say so though, Uriel clacked her clipboard of measurements down much harder than necessary. 

“Gabriel wouldn't admit to anything disreputable even if the results of it slapped him in the face. It's the Industry, and he's a lord within It's kingdom.” She turned to Crowley, expression unreadable. “I'll speak to Beatrice for a moment and prep the form to transfer the gown. Be patient.”

“That's me. Patient,” Crowley snarked but yielded to it. He dug his mobile from the pile of his belongings nearby and texted Lucifer that he'd be able to swing by and take Warlock to practice after all this evening before leaving for Paris in a late flight.

And now Aziraphale. He felt the unavoidable silly grin. He couldn't send a current selfie in order to protect Uriel's work, but he'd taken a handful this morning he never added to his social media. He attached one to an email and added a quick reminder of his next few days just in case it slipped his mind. The thought of Aziraphale, sitting in his shop thinking he'd been abandoned like before filled Crowley with unease. In fact... he glanced at the time. If Uriel was nearly finished with her fitting, he might be able to swing by the bookshop before scooping up Warlock for his game. With this decided, he glanced up only to see both Uriel and Beatrice staring at him with concern. 

“What,” he said with caution. Their leaded regard began frazzling his nerves. 

While they both hesitated, his mobile vibrated. He glanced at it on reflex. 

_Michael: Headed back. G in a mood_

“They're on their way back,” he warned. “We still have about an hour.” Their expressions remained unchanged, and he grew uncomfortably stressed, squirming in the seat. “Spit it out, will ya?” 

Uriel held her chin high. “We were discussing the unwanted liberties Gabriel Celestial takes with your person,” said Uriel, blunt as ever. 

He ducked his head, thrown, cautious of the pins. The touching and groping were part of the business. There were regulations and talk of protections, of course, but to actually see them followed through? Most days were better than others. Gabriel made Crowley uncomfortable, but all Crowley had to do is ride out the last two years of his contract and hope he'd figured out the next bit by then. Besides. Gabriel'd been far from the only handsy or even forward one in his experience. Crowley was far from the only model. Anyone making waves in the industry over it would be blacklisted; he'd seen it happen in other agencies to other models. And Gabriel, Michael, and Lucifer had been thick as thieves when he'd first been brought aboard so many years ago. His career once sat within the palm of Gabriel's greedy hands. Too messy. Easier for everyone to brush it off. 

Beatrice nodded at Uriel- already new buddies, Crowley thought woefully. They returned to the door but glanced back over their shoulder. “We'll talk about it later. We'd enforce precautions against harassment on _my watch_. We need to cover Brussels before you leave for Paris,” they reminded before leaving.

With the soft classical strings still weaving a sedate atmosphere within his prep room, Uriel motioned him into an easy position to remove the garment. He focused on the sounds, using the soothing notes to calm his rattled nerves and not shake while she carefully inched the pinned gown over his head. 

“What was that about?” he finally asked, ready to explode from the curiosity. 

She slowed her movements, her long fingers careful on the fabric. “Some of us erred too far on the side of caution in the past,” she said unusually muted for her, enough so Crowley glanced up to meet her dark brown eyes. “Some of us attempted to endure a burden alone when we might have enlisted others to ease that suffering.”

She finished sliding the gown away from Crowley's body, leaving him in just his boxers, and arranged it carefully on the form. While she attended to that, Crowley snagged his worn T-shirt and the fitted waxed-denim jeans he'd flung onto a chair earlier. He had no idea what to say, but he was both morbidly intrigued and burdened with mounting suspicion.

“Uriel,” he said, voice muffled as he twisted somewhat contortedly in search of the neck and second arm opening of the T-shirt. His head popped through to a refreshing breath of air. Uriel had turned toward the dressform, angled so she she could view Crowley with a side-glance. Her placid expression hid everything. 

“Uriel.” Fuck, he was awful at this. He propped against the wall to slide on his jeans, aiming for casual. “You should know. If there's stuff.” His fingers fumbled with the buttons at the fly. This mushy stuff was for the birds. But it was _important_ , and he was taking steps to change, so he pushed the words onto his tongue. “If there's _stuff_ you need to open up about, I'd go to bat for you.” 

She didn't look at him. But her shoulders, held tight with stick-straight posture did soften some.

Crowley patted his leather jacket to ensure the little case with engraved bookmark remained within the inner pocket before slipping that on as well. He'd go after and bring it to Aziraphale, wanted to see him before his packed schedule kicked-in. He needed to reacquire that addicting peace he found with him. 

“Can't speak for Lucifer. Or anyone else for that matter. But-” He thought of some of the dreams he nurtured in secret, the barriers involved, and how hard it'd be to traverse it all on his own. Of Uriel and the very public buy-out of the remainder of her contract spun as a gift rather than anything which might reveal to be sinister. Of the secrets so many models and other members of the industry held because speaking out was career suicide. Of how colleagues behaved as if his separation from Lucifer was a betrayal of their dream pairing rather than a healthy step to reclaiming himself. 

Of what they'd say about Aziraphale if Crowley escorted him on arm at his next event. 

Uriel always seemed on top of it all, so composed, so cool. Exactly how Crowley preferred to present to others. Perhaps she'd been cobbling herself together with sellotape and wire just as he'd been. 

He crossed to her side, studying the truly beautiful silk of gown rather than laden her with his attention. “I'm thinking we need to stick together on all this rubbish. Build up our side. You know,” he fumbled for words. “In case.” 

“Thank you, Anthony Crowley,” she whispered. “If anything has come of our situations, I'm pleased to call you a friend.” 

Crowley allowed the delicate chain he'd been rolling between his thumb and index finger to drop from his fingertips. He looked over at Uriel in mild disbelief.

“Friend,” he echoed, chest warming at the thought. He'd already wondered if her care for him was similar to what having an older sister might be like. Non of his foster families offered such a relationship. But a true friend? He wasn't sure if he'd ever even _had_ a true friend as an adult. 

“Now haul your lanky-arse out of my way so I might finish,” Uriel ordered, but her icy expression was belayed by the fondness in her tone. 

*

He helped her carry her things to her rental vehicle, a sturdy Volvo. After texting Michael his plans, he headed toward a local bistro to grab a quick, solitary lunch. 

“Uriel. Uriel.” he googled her name combined with various buzzwords, but came up empty other than tremendous amounts of gossip over her disappearance from the spotlight between her parting from Celestial Bodies and her current public foray. Uriel Asante was not as well known as Lucifer but was highly sought after when Crowley'd first met her. Whatever'd gone on, Celestial Bodies Modeling Agency had been generous with praise and well wishes in public after buying out her contract. Gossip ranged from mundane contract disagreements to a secret pregnancy to a simple desire to focus on designing rather than modeling. 

“If there was something scandalous, they sure covered it up,” he mumbled around his grilled sandwich. He shot a quick selfie to send to Warlock - _not bad on the food here_ \- and then googled himself in the sort of needy way he couldn't resist. Some brief shots of him walking here or there, appearing determined. Several of him with fans from St. James park without mention of his freakout. Surprising. Comments on his wardrobe, mostly complimentary enough that he preened; he'd be keeping that inky-black Tom Ford slit pencil skirt in circulation after all in spite of how prissy and schoolmarmish it made him feel. Perhaps more naughty teacher than schoolmarm then? It did suit his hips, he thought, grinning to himself. 

He scrolled upward, relieved to see nothing about Aziraphale and their visit to the museum. Nothing of his taking command of the situation in the park either, a recollection eliciting a quiver inside at the memory of it. Good. Aziraphale was safe from vultures for now. There's no way it'd hold, he knew. Morosely, he wondered if that would be the breaking point. Aziraphale was as cautious as a feral cat over their intimacy, skittish and wary. But he'd also not even blinked at putting Lucifer in his place, and he'd somehow trundled through Crowley's crowding fans at the park to his rescue with startling intensity. Crowley wanted him to both understand and _believe_ he'd defend Aziraphale's privacy just as fiercely as he did his boys. On that thought, he checked for them as well and googled Lucifer for good measure, just to ensure his ex had been as vigilant. 

And there was Adam, Crowley was furious to notice, in a photo with Lucifer as the the two left his Montessori several days ago. Crowley and the paps had an agreement. Lucifer didn't seem to care as much. He minimized the images and texted Lucifer in frustration. Damn him, sometimes. Lucifer could be so sweet and loving to the boys, and then he could be completely oblivious to shit like this. Crowley scrambled up from his relaxed sprawl. Why was he the only parent in the picture who wanted to shelter the boys? He threw more money than necessary onto the table and stalked out at a clipped pace. 

Thankfully, most the comments were cooing over Lucifer's fatherhood or straight up salacious DILF fantasies. Some compared the photo with one from Lucifer's own history, his tiny hand in some guardian's being escorted off the set of the television drama series _Nine Circles_ , where he grew from a cherubic four-year old boy to a heartstoppingly gorgeous nineteen year old before the eyes of the world. Crowley slowed as he approached his Bentley. In his own grudging way, he hated to admit he was far too emotional to look at Lucifer's behavior with fairness. He pulled up the photo again. Lucifer, impeccable in Armani, Adam in school uniform tugging a backpack nearly as large as he was tall. They both were looking away, intent on the car or perhaps Michael waiting on them. No posing or goading the paps here; it genuinely appeared to be a stolen shot. 

“Hmf,” grunted Crowley as he tossed his mobile onto the seat. He'd already texted Lucifer his fury, but it seemed innocent. He put the Bentley in gear to head into Aziraphale's neighborhood. How _would_ Aziraphale handle getting caught out like that, critiqued on his clothing or weight or any number of things the tabloids slung? Or even worse, the comments on how he didn't belong with Crowley, sullied his image. Gabriel's condescending face appeared into his head with scathing remarks berating Aziraphale's very existence; it was revolting. Best keep things on the downlow for now, he decided, now that he'd thrown his lot in with Aziraphale for as long as his bookangel was willing. 

The bookshop was blessedly open this time. A Vera Lynn record spun on a vintage gramophone, crackling in the charming way shellac and vinyl tended rather than piped in music. Crowley felt light over the thought. Ridiculous bookangel and his dated outfits and taste in music and Edwardian manners. He might've claimed he was _just this way_ thanks to injury obtained in his collision, but Crowley suspected this thread of antiquated taste comprised Aziraphale's very core of personality. Captivating and eternally fascinating. Crowley could spend hours gazing at bits of starstuff older than the dirt on Earth. Did Aziraphale think he might grow weary from a little old tweed and tartan? 

He rounded a bookcase and found Aziraphale at work, talking circles around a customer to encourage them on their way. How was he able to support himself with his sales manner? Yet another mystery he might solve with time. He hung back, thumbing through a random book on trying your hand at home brewing; he wrinkled his nose at the subject. He'd rather have his hand on Aziraphale. Ducking back behind the shelving, he peered through a hollow with books arranged _just so_ to allow an unobstructed view.

Somehow, Aziraphale had managed to tame his fluff of hair into an angled part. In his pink button down with rolled sleeves, pale blue bow tie and matching braces fastened to tan slacks, he appeared wildly under-dressed to Crowley, who'd only seen him with a flash of bare throat previously. Crowley had not been intimate with anyone sporting a softly rounded tummy in ages. He'd already enjoyed the privilege of holding his hips within his spread palms. Too much cloth separated their skin to feel any heat, but he imagined, oh had he _imagined._

Wednesday evening, his hopes were high he'd finally be able to unwrap that luscious body, but this- he sidestepped slowly in search of another opening in the shelving and spotted Aziraphale sadly shaking his head at the insistent customer clutching an enormous, dusty hardcover – this would be alright, the waiting. The savoring. His instincts were to rush in, to claim. Lucifer might call it being a Libra, but Crowley just _knew_ when the universe was pushing him a particular way. Maybe the slow ease into it all was good for him too because he'd never felt this connection and rightness before. It was almost overwhelming when he thought about it. He found it easier just to not think. 

“Crowley? Is that you behind there?” Crowley jerked his head up, pulse thwapping away in his throat. One steely blue eye flashed at him from the gap in the shelving between them. The customer was gone. He stumbled backward only to thump against additional shelving and needed to duck a book that whumped him on the shoulder. 

“Geeeeyepp?” he squeaked, eyes prickling with how wide they'd blown. Smooth. 

“Oh, my dear!” came Aziraphale's flustered and concerned words. He walked around the shelving just as Crowley stood back up from retrieving the knocked-over books, too quick to readjust his askew sunglasses and mussed hair.

He fumbled the books in his arm and slapped on a photoshoot worthy smirk to cover up his mortification. Don't mind, me, he hoped it read. Not a creeper. Just, you know, lurking in the stacks, spying on you between thick volumes of an annotated fiction collection, thinking about stripping your clothes off. Oh blessed hell, he _was_ being a creeper. 

Aziraphale didn't seem to mind, and in fact, appeared both worried and amused as he fussed over Crowley's jacket. He straightened Crowley's sunglasses for him. “My word, why didn't you interrupt? I'd rather see you than deal with a customer who wouldn't recognize a vellum manuscript from linen!” 

Crowley wouldn't know vellum from a hole in the wall either, he considered, but perhaps Aziraphale's affection for him overruled that flaw. “Wanted to see you at work,” he explained, recovering his dignity. He relinquished the books he'd retrieved and watched bemusedly as Aziraphale inspected them and replaced them in their proper slots. Aziraphale glanced up and caught Crowley well- no other way to describe it- ogling at his fingers elegantly caressing the spines. Crowley pushed into it and grinned with much more wicked intent. 

Aziraphale's blush was a well earned reward. “Don't be silly,” he chided softly. “I didn't sell him anything.”

“Well that's it, innit?” Crowley crossed his arms, remembering the bookmark when his thumb leaned against the solidness of it's packaging within his inner pocket. “Watching you completely thwart a determined buyer's something I never saw before.” Though Aziraphale wouldn't see it behind his sunglasses, Crowley allowed himself a blatant eyeful of Aziraphale's figure. His compact build seemed designed to slot neatly right beneath Crowley's chin. “You thwarted _Lucifer_ from getting something he wanted and made him wait. You have no idea how few people have that power.” He knew his smile had likely gone foolish, but that first sight of Aziraphale had been the most interesting, masterful handling of Lucifer's bullshit he'd ever seen from someone beyond himself or Michael, subtle strength and authority all bundled up in the most uncannily deceiving package. 

With his chin tucked downward to unsuccessfully hide a shy quirk to his lips and a little bounce on his toes, Aziraphale turned, saying, “I know you're busy, but please join me if you have a moment.”

“Gladly.” Crowley followed, pleased and at ease. Much of his earlier worry over leaving Aziraphale for a chunk of time again seemed trivial now. Even his more important concerns appeared more manageable. Content. That's what it was, he realized. He'd shadow Aziraphale happily if this is what his companionship brought him. 

“Shall I make you up a quick cuppa? I've only got PG Tips in at the moment,” he apologized. He shoved a knitted blanket further into the corner of the ratty little sofa gracing his backroom and shifted a pile of books away. Crowley noted how the curl of Aziraphale's ear had pinked up, obvious against his pale hair. 

Crowley glanced at his DEVON Works tread 1 watch, his current favorite and much more of a showy spectacle than mundanely checking the time on his mobile. As much as he'd like to... he shook his head but did take the invitation to sit. “Sorry, I've gotta run to Lucifer's. I'm taking Warlock down to the pitch where his practice'll be, then I have a flight this evening for a shoot in Paris over the weekend.” 

“Ah.” Aziraphale settled gingerly into the desk chair situated near the sofa, his expression going mild as if he had ample practice disguising disappointment. “You'd said you were busy.”

“Yeah. Got a lot booked back-to-back.” He kicked his legs outward and relaxed into the sofa, melting into the cushions he'd mostly dozed on before. “Tomorrow's the first official event for Uriel's L'Occulte Ethere. Brussels is an on-location feature about-well, about me,” he said with some pride. “And Warlock's been invited to this annual charity game since he was about six.” Aziraphale nodded in quiet understanding. Crowley could almost see him ticking off the days in his mind, making his peace with it, _worrying._ That wouldn't do. 

With Wednesday's conversation fresh in his memory, Crowley felt an urgent need to reassure. “But here.” He shoved his sunglasses atop his head and swept his hair back over his shoulders so he could easily access his gift. With slightly shaky hands, he pulled the little acrylic box from his pocket. Why it felt like a big fucking deal, he had no idea. “'S from New York City. Laser cut. We're stupidly busy for fashion week, but I'va tradition now of bringing back a little something for the boys.” He realized he was babbling but couldn't stop, instead brandishing the etched metal collectors bookmark toward Aziraphale. “I saw this and thought of you.” He gnawed at his lip, eyes glued to Aziraphale's face for a reaction. 

Aziraphale appeared stunned. He stared back at Crowley and his eyes flicked down to the container held out between them. 

“See, I was thinking about you there,” he said in a rush, his voice going husky. “Thinkin' about you the whole time.” He lifted the little box in encouragement, some of the anxiousness spiraling upward until Aziraphale rose from his chair, stepped forward, and drew it from his palm with a gentle reverence. He towered over Crowley's slouched sprawl upon the sofa in an unusual twist of mismatched height. 

“Crowley!” he sounded breathless in a way that promised to be very, very good. Crowley's tension eased some. 

“It's the main branch of the New York Public Library.” He used Aziraphale's fumbling on the box as an excuse to scoot forward and help him unsnap the case with liberal brushing of fingers. He couldn't shove away his eager smile if he even wanted to try. 

“This is beautiful,” Aziraphale said, his voice just above a whisper. His eyes were slightly glassy; Crowley could see the bright metal reflecting in their grays and blues until their focus shifted onto Crowley. His hands lingered in Crowley's, warm and steady, with one curled around the bookmark freed from it's acrylic packaging. 

There were innumerable words ping-ponging in Crowley's mind, poetic and seductive, words befitting a desirable supermodel that wanted to make an impression on a handsome gentleman to keep them interested in their absence. “You have books,” was what he chose to blurt instead like a complete tosser. 

“I do,” said Aziraphale, the laughter apparent in his tone. “Thank you,” he added. And then it all didn't matter, Crowley's stupid words and awkward crashing into bookshelves like he'd returned to his early teen coordination of a drunken gazelle. None of it meant anything because Aziraphale released Crowley's hands, slid the bookmark into his pocket, and framed Crowley's cheeks with light fingers, cradling his jaw tenderly. Crowley felt himself go pliant, soaking in Aziraphale's adoring gaze.

“Angel,” was all he could whisper, and even that was a trace brush of air. 

Aziraphale tipped Crowley's chin upward for a brief kiss. Soft lips and a bold tongue startled Crowley enough that a faint whimper escaped. He surged into it all, nose briefly bumping before nestling against Aziraphale's. He memorized how they fit together, determined for it to become effortless with time. His fluttering hands landed to steady himself just below Aziraphale's hips. 

Oh holy fuck, he nearly keened at his angel's perfect, plush lips and hot little slide of tongue. His fingers curled feral at Aziraphale's thighs, voluptuously thick beneath his hands, but fuck fuck fuck he needed to _Slooooowww!!!_ the tiny percent of his brain still functioning squealed, and he gentled his wild frenzy just as Aziraphale sighed with a delicately sweet and barely there hum. 

How? How could he sound so prim and serene while Crowley found himself gasping panted breaths the moment Aziraphale pulled back. 

“My neck,” Aziraphale whispered, apologetic, then grinned bright and pleased as he stepped away enough that Crowley had to release the desperate, mildly trembling grip on Aziraphale's sturdy thighs. Fuck, he would be fantasizing about those thighs now and what he could do with them. 

“You didn't have to-” Crowley began, impassioned but flustered at the suddenness. Aziraphale's doting expression never dimmed.

“Allow me to indulge in a fantasy I regretted not fulfilling on Wednesday, my dearest.” He straightened himself to his full height. “I've never thought about how awkwardly you must need to bend in order to get down to my level,” Aziraphale added, his cheeks rosy with cheer. 

“Worth it!” said Crowley ardently, and then he hissed and fumbled to his feet as the uncomfortable tightness in his waxed-denim jeans shifted. “So worth it.” The bashfulness brought on by his inelegant readjusting paled in comparison to the brazen joy swelling within his chest. Aziraphale beamed at him, hands clasped at his waist with the bookmark retrieved from his pocket. 

His very self-satisfied, smug expression would fuel Crowley for days. 

*

The drive between Aziraphale's shop and his old Chelsea home passed in a blink. Even bittersweet memories of his time here couldn't sink his buoyant heart. He let himself in, the routine still instinctual, and hunted around until he spied Warlock bouncing a football at his knee, already dressed in his lime-green uniform. 

“Pop!” Warlock caught the ball in gloved hands and tucked it in his arm. “I thought you wouldn't be able to take me to practice!” 

Crowley ruffled his hair and cocked an eyebrow. “Catching a later flight. Does your father know you're inside with that thing?” He surreptitiously glanced around the sitting room they were in; not too much to destroy in here, he supposed. He nearly stumbled when a heavy body crashed into his legs. 

“Woah! Hang on, Stardust! Slow down!” 

“Where Puppy Dog? You bing Puppy Dog?” Adam's tearful voice and damp eyes revealed signs of a long period of crying. 

“He forgot Puppy Dog yesterday.” Warlock appeared entirely over the drama. 

Adam's lips wobbled in sorrow. “Udder house?” 

Crowley's brain clicked over to dad-mode immediately, regretfully leaving his bookangel-induced high behind. He narrowed his eyes in thought, picturing Adam's room. “Sorry, I think you left Puppy Dog on your bed by me,” he strained to recall. “Hey, you'll be there in a couple of days. None of that sniffling.” 

Adam clung to his leg, expression pleading. Crowley's heart hurt at the sight. “Puppy Dog?” 

“Guess where we're stopping on the way back,” Warlock grumbled, but he paused to bounce the ball gently on Adam's head before wandering toward the door. 

Crowley took Adam's distress in stride and scooped him up to snuffle at his curls. Still a trace of baby-scented shampoo there, thankfully. He was grateful Lucifer suffered the same weakness. Speaking of the devil- 

“Luce?” he called out, curious over what it was that had him frantically texting Crowley earlier that day to step in and take Warlock. He hoped Lucifer would fail to mention his epic rant over the Adam and paparazzi from earlier. 

“That you, love?” echoed out of the formal dining room. “Come be a sweetling and give me a hand with this before you two leave?”

Crowley snorted at the endearment but hiked Adam onto his hip and made his way down the hall into the high-ceilinged room, abundant with authentic Tiffany chandelier lighting and dominated by an elegantly carved table. Crowley always found the décor ostentatious, even the years he lived here. His own quiet study had been transformed into a gaudy playroom for Adam when he'd moved out for good. He unfortunately was well acquainted with how Lucifer had chosen redecorate their once-shared bedroom. 

Lucifer's blond locks were just long enough of late to tuck into a very short ponytail, and his silk shirt appeared remarkably creased for how particular he could be over his wardrobe. It looked as though he'd been camped out at the table for a good length of time. File folders and piles of paperwork surrounded him. He shoved a pencil haphazardly behind his ear in a careless way that tugged a helpless smile to Crowley's lips. Warlock occasionally did the exact same thing. The little reading glasses were new though and privately, Crowley thought they'd been necessary years ago. It was good to see Lucifer accept inevitable changes for once. 

“Whats all this?” he asked as he lowered Adam and chose a seat across from Lucifer's mess of documents and pages of charts and figures. “Go play for a bit,” he nudged Adam away. 

“Paperwork.” Lucifer heaved a tortured sigh. I have _people_ to handle paperwork for me. Learning to do my own is appalling, Michael is simply _tormenting me_ by forcing me to learn.” He pouted aesthetically. “Please be a doll and separate these into two piles.” 

“Why is she-” Crowley began and trailed off upon studying a handful of pages Lucifer slid over. Stock share data and pages upon pages of legalese. Statistical history and financial trends at the structural base of Celestial Bodies Modeling Agency. Detailed analysis of the current function of the Board of Directors for not only C.B. but other management agencies as well. Curious. “Are you looking to start your own?” Crowley often found Lucifer to be bossy, both within their intimate relationship and outward. He never seemed ambitious enough before to act on a desire to be in charge of an entire agency. 

“Something like that,” he said, dismissive in a way that was not cruel but rather a product of his concentration. As if startled by his own tone, he met Crowley's curious gaze and flashed an exhausted smile. “I'll let you know as soon as I figure it out. I _did_ read Business at Uni, love,” he teased. “You're not the only bright young thing on the runway, though less on the young in my case.” The last sounded playful as opposed to morose. Crowley'd never known anyone in the industry who cared less over his own aging. Lucifer would be a silver fox one day and _knew it_ , the vain bastard. 

“If you need any help,” he began to offer and cringed while Lucifer had his attention on a spreadsheet. One good date and he became Motherfucking St. Theresa, was it? Offering support to Uriel, offers to help out his ex with whatever this mess was... he groaned heavily and dropped his chin to rest on his folded arms propped upon the table.

“This is welcome enough assistance right now. Totally unnecessary practice for a celebrity match, I think. Warlock is fabulously perfect without _rehearsal_.” Lucifer waved an airy hand in the general direction of where Warlock might be. “Nanny Ash is only contracted to noon on Friday's and Gabriel has Michael doing who knows what today even though she spends Friday's with _me_ , and he knows it.” He twisted in his seat to crack his back and reached upward to stretch with a satisfied sounding moan. 

Crowley idly watched him move; Lucifer clearly _had_ been at this for a while, but more importantly, he refrained from injecting too much blatant flirtation into his flexing as he might have even a few weeks ago. Perhaps he'd taken Crowley's words at fashion week to heart?

Today was evidently full of surprises. 

“I'll swing by and pick up Dog,” he offered. 

“Oh, _pleeeease,"_ he groaned, and _that_ sounded vaguely pornographic. “I had Michael hunt down a second one ages ago. But _he knows_. 'It's not he same,'” he added in a facsimile of Adam's voice. “Last night was unspeakable. I was dreading this evening. But here you are, making everything right again, aren't you love? You always do.” 

Crowley lost a fight to stop his blush and scrubbed his forehead against his knuckles. Okay, so maybe Lucifer would need more time based on the wistfulness of his last words. 

“Lucifer.” He glanced upward from his slump over the table and met Lucifer's pensive expression. “I'm not going anywhere. I'm not Lilith. I will always be here for the boys. We're still partners in a way at least in that.” Just not the way Lucifer desired, he knew. The guilt normally accompanying such a thought never materialized, Crowley noted with relief. 

“And you, off to Paris with Uriel's House of the Ethereal Occult!” Lucifer's swift change of subject was tinged with desperation. Fine. He'd take the bait as long as Lucifer understood the line he'd set after his mistake last autumn-the boundary he'd reaffirmed in New York -was solid and permanent. 

Besides, if anything would get Lucifer's attention off of his wallowing-“You should see the gown!” He sketched his hands in the air in a sort of outline of the silhouette. “And she prefers L'Occulte Ethere. But scarlet and black ombre silk charmeuse. Plunge back with the finest chain detailing. Haven't seen the thing with it's pure drape but even holding pins it was stunning. Uriel really outdid herself.” Exhilarating even in just it's description, Crowley thought, he could barely wait to flaunt the finished piece. 

“She did in New York with her own and your gorgeous suit,” Lucifer said, much more keen to engage in this particular topic. “But for her first official business between- what did you say, L'Occulte- and Celestial? I'm excited. And I'm simply jealous, love, she's got an eye, that one. Celestial's move to hire her for their anniversary gala and feature her exclusive collection on the runway is the only sane decision the Board of Directors- that _Gabriel's_ made lately.” 

Crowley jerked his head up. That was unusually snarky of Lucifer regarding Gabriel. He eyed the surrounding paperwork with a more critical appraisal. When he glanced over, Lucifer's expression featured a kaleidoscope of emotions. 

“I'm sure she'd have something for you if you've changed your mind,” he offered. 

“Oh she's already dangled a scrumptious outfit beneath my nose. But I'm not walking for her, love, I'm orchestrating the entire shebang. Production or somesuch, who really cares about titles,” he said with an aloof sniff. 

This much involvement was news to Crowley. Uriel had said 'behind the scenes', and Lucifer did adore running things to his own vision, but it was the first he'd refused featuring in the spotlight in order to spearhead such an immense undertaking. 

The thought of Lucifer channeling his tendency to wield control onto the fashion industry was a fearsome prospect. He tended to believe his way was the right one, and his overall ability to weave his web of possessiveness would be interesting in light of his long experience within both the celebrity and fashion world. Crowley couldn't help but be fascinated. Few escaped from their entanglement with The Morningstar, for better or worse. Crowley was well aware he would never be one of the few. 

“It'll be a stellar show, at least. She's already designed for slew of talent besides me while she was in seclusion, like Giselle Norman and Ugbad Abdi. Laith Ashley De la Cruz and Gilles Souteyrand had that great bespoke spread in G.Q. last year, remember?” 

“Oh, Laith Ashley. Well he's a confection, isn't he? Crowley love, have you bored of dallying with your tubby little bookshop fellow yet? Because the gossip is that Laith Ashley is single now. You two were deliciously steamy in Cabo last spring. And you'll need a palate cleanser after-”

Crowley shot up from his seat like a jackrabbit, acid in his throat. “Nope. Stop it!” he snarled, his fretting obvious in the crack of his voice. “Just stop. Now.” He knew he sounded both furious and frantic; he didn't care. Lucifer gave voice to all the fears Crowley sensed from Aziraphale, unspoken but clearly apparent in both his hesitancy and his very welcome bit of forwardness today. This is what Lucifer thought, this is what the world would think, so why wouldn't Aziraphale assume the same? 

Lucifer looked affronted. He leaned back into the dinning room chair and slit his eyes. “Anthony,” he called out, but the name sounded as though he felt Crowley was being unreasonable, had indulged in melodrama and required calming to see sense. 

The thought angered him. “Nuh-uh. My relat-” he wasn't ready for that word yet and nixed it, “my thing with Aziraphale Fell is complicated. I'm slowing to his speed, letting him call the shots. Our lives are too fast for him. I can see it in his eyes.” His rough tone turned somber, and he looked upward to unseeingly stare at one of the Tiffany chandeliers, now speaking almost to himself. “He's trying, but he's worried I'll forget him or something. I'm working on it. I only just kissed him, barely touched the surface of who he is.” He blinked at the negative flash from looking too long into the lamplight. He turned beseechingly at Lucifer, a little sick with himself at how he still sought comfort from the very person who'd elicited that pain. “How could I even be the slightest bit bored?” 

Lucifer reached outward but seemed to think better of it and rested his outstretched fingertips on the table between them instead. “Anthony,” he said softly, oddly gentle. “I had you between my sheets in mere days. Lance Walters from our rival agency, I might add? That actor, Tom whasshisname? The waiter in Cairo? Tumbling little affairs since our divorce was final, over in moments. You could've had your _choice_ recently in New York when you rejected me instead of making a spectacle with Uriel.” His eyes flicked from his fingers and back up to meet Crowley's fraught stare. “Are you...pursuing this man with serious intent?” He said it tentatively, as if the entire concept sounded absurd. 

“Yessssssss!” The word whooshed out with a thankful clarity. Pursuing with serious intent. That'd do if it made an impression on Lucifer. “Yes!” he repeated. He spread his arms wide as if embracing the very room.“Why is this so difficult for you to understand?” Then he all but collapsed back into the chair, sprawling boneless over the uncomfortable furniture in his mental exhaustion. “Luce,” he said, quiet now, feelings stripped down to bare. “I really like him. A lot.” His eyes went embarrassingly watery with the release of emotion. He yearned for the security of sunglasses left back in the Bentley. Vulnerable in front of Lucifer wasn't a position he enjoyed. 

“He's not your type, love,” Lucifer still was keen on explaining. “You know I disapproved, but I did pay attention to your flings. A short, round, everyday shopkeeper who wouldn't have the slightest idea how complicated your life is? This is what you suddenly want?” 

“There's no need for you to curate my sex life!” Crowley snapped, the ill swirling increasing. “We separated. And then divorced! I don't pay the slightest bit of attention to who you fuck!”

“Give me some credit,” Lucifer bit out at him, uncharacteristically harsh toward Crowley for once. _I_ haven't been with anyone but _you_ long past _our_ divorce on paper.”

Well.

Shit. 

Crowley lost some of his steam. He supposed he did lead on Lucifer, just a little, with his periodic neediness. He could've put a halt to it the moment he moved out, weeks after Adam's first birthday when they stopped pretending everything was fine. He liked to claim he'd given in to Lucifer's temptation, but he was just as guilty of seeking out what he thought was uncomplicated comfort, wasn't he? The easy way wound up being the most broken path of all. 

If he wasn't about to take Warlock out or hop on a flight this evening, now would be a moment he'd indulge in a generous measure of whiskey. He wanted to stalk out, leave this conversation hanging, but it'd do no good. Their admittedly unusual style of co-parenting depended on communication. 

“Aziraphale,” he surrendered, his voice dropping in register. “He's...uh... he _is_ different. You're right. He's very old fashioned, entirely remarkable.” He knew his expression had gone sappy by the puzzled angle of Lucifer's eyebrows. “I don't care that he's 'everyday'.” A bit of an embellishment, Crowley thought. His worry over protecting him was phenomenal, but overall the sentiment was very true. 

Lucifer began stacking folders and paperwork in a distraught fashion. “I just want what's best for you, do you understand? If not me, then you deserve someone sublime, someone A-list, a household name! Do you think anywhere in Agnes Nutter's syndicated Nice and Accurate Horoscope you'd find the stars predicting a meek, cardigan clad shop owner to be best for Anthony 'the Demon' Crowley, internationally known supermodel? Don't be foolish. I'm sure I could introduce you to a suitable-” 

“AAAAAAAARRRRGGGGHHHH!” Crowley dropped his forehead to the table. Maybe he'd stay here the rest of the day and hide beneath the curtain of his hair. Nope, football practice. Plane ride. Meeting with Beelzebub somewhere in between; had Beatrice even texted him yet? Did they even _have_ his personal number? So few did. He lolled his head sideways to glance at his watch. He had to leave soon anyhow. 

“This-” he waved an arm in a flurry, cheek still plastered to a spreadsheet on the table. He had to blow a draped lock of hair away from his mouth. “This is one of many reasons why I left you. For future reference. You're too much! It's hell 's what it is, sometimes!” He pushed upward from the table surface, a serpentine roll of his spine, and flopped most his weight into the back of the chair with his knee hiked up and his heel braced on the seat. “Lucifer, everybody knows if you could chain me to you through work or sex or some other connection, you'd do it in a heartbeat. Let it go. It'll be fine.” His heaved sigh sounded exhausted even to his own ears, and he scrabbled for the crumbs of contentment he'd found with Aziraphale not long ago. 

Lucifer crossed his arms in disappointment. “Do you think it's so very easy to just scoop an everyday someone up and thrust them into the spotlight when they've preferred to stand in your shadow?” His caustic laugh seemed out of place. “Oh, I bet they'll try if they love you. And while you might need them like breathing, the entire thing would be in ashes the moment the tabloids tack on. Once every bit of them is picked apart on a talk show? Once they can't visit their favorite places or go about their job for fear of being mobbed by people bellowing they aren't good enough? They'll realize you aren't worth the trouble.”

His pleading expression held genuine worry, and he continued, “If you're that fond of him, just be a friend! Join a book club together or something, I don't know! Buy argyle sweaters on the Northern coast. You won't lose him that way.” Lucifer's voice cracked on the last, and he dragged his fingers through his hair so coarsely that it stuck up in little blond cowlicks, the hairband picked away. 

Crowley considered Lucifer's impromptu speech and narrowed his eyes in contemplation. “You've put some thought to it,” he said with suspicion. A lot of thought, it appeared. 

“I'm proactive,” he mumbled, but Crowley could see he was obscuring something. Lucifer never lied when it counted. Rather, he developed erroneous conclusions and shoved all his stubborn weight behind them. 

“You're as much of a dumbass as I am,” Crowley decided, not particularly unkindly. While some of this clearly had to do with finding closure to their romantic attachment, Crowley was nearly sure this didn't have as much to do with Aziraphale and his unsuitable status as he'd thought. That speech was _personal._

The thump of a ball bouncing on wood flooring drew near and shattered the difficult mood. Crowley tipped his head to look over his shoulder. “Hey kid. Almost ready to go?” 

“Pops,” Warlock said, now clutching the ball to his chest like a shield. “are you and Father fighting?” 

“Pick me up, Daddy?” Adam blurted at the same time, clearly having followed Warlock in. He snuggled a stuffed giraffe, clearly a substandard substitution for Puppy Dog in his eyes. 

Crowley realized he'd crushed a handful of paperwork in his fist. His eyes still stung from the threat of tears he'd smacked down before they could fall. He probably looked like shit. He dropped the papers onto the table and brushed his fingers through his hair. A quick glance at Lucifer revealed him to be primping the same, buttoning the collar he'd ripped open in his agitation and readjusting his tie. Crowley experienced a inconvenient flashback to a time when a young Warlock had stumbled upon them entwined in a far more compromising position. A different sort of passion choked the dining room air this afternoon. 

He inhaled thick through his nose and forced a smile, clueless on what to say. Adam climbed into his lap and stuck his thumb into his mouth. “No, Kid. Stardust. We're not. Your father and I just-” 

Lucifer straightened in his seat and threw his shoulders back. He looked every bit the imperious celebrity. “I misspoke and am very sorry. Happens to the best of us.” He held a hand out for Warlock, who crossed to the other side of the table and took it with a confused expression. “I misunderstood some things between your Papa and the gentleman from the bookshop, but we've hashed it out.” 

Adam popped his thumb from his mouth and clapped in Crowley's arms. “Duck book! Duck book!” 

Crowley's smile was genuine this time. An apology? Lucifer shook his head, grinning wryly. Since they were all here...

“I invited him back home,” he informed them, including the boys although it was meant for Lucifer. “If things continue to go well, it'll be more often.”

“Ohhhh.” Lucifer went quiet and looked over at both Warlock and Adam, one at a time before meeting Crowley's eyes. Crowley's trepidation in sharing this jutted outward like spikes of lightning escaping his heart. “For my knowledge that's new for you,” he said very softly. 

“No kidding,” Crowley laughed bitterly, shifting restlessly in the seat. He shuffled Adam's weight to his other leg. “ So I need to know if you'd like me to change it to a time I don't have the boys. But eventually I'd like him to really meet Adam and Warlock outside the bookshop.”

Adam only smiled around his thumb. Warlock's eyes darted between them, his gaze hooded. 

“It's like that, is it, love.” Lucifer's voice was far too fractured, his gaze too broken. Like he'd finally, _finally_ understood how Crowley was feeling. Why everything was so charged. 

He had to shut his eyes. “Yeah. He's important. Don't want him to be a 'tumbling little affair'.” He slit his eyes back open in apprehension of what he might see on their faces. 

Lucifer mirrored his long, slow blink. But then he smiled, something small, barely a slip, but Crowley knew it was authentic. With an air of nonchalance, he waved a hand regally toward Crowley. “I don't see why not, he's not a stranger. We've all been acquainted.” 

Worries Crowley'd been carrying inside for a very long time imploded upon themselves. It left him feeling effervescent and optimistic. His grin ached in his cheeks, and he didn't care who saw. An entirely new pathway rolled out before him where Aziraphale slotted with care into his unusual life, a wondrous and awesome possibility in the old, biblical sense of the word. 

“To be fair,” he said, “Aziraphale didn't know who we were that first day.” He knew that would capture Lucifer's attention. He was so well known he rarely met anyone who didn't recognize the Morningstar. 

Lucifer indeed looked shocked. “Nooooooo. Really?” He stared at Crowley in disbelief but then seemed to notice Warlock trying to hide his giggling. He made an exaggerated shocked face. “He didn't know little ol' moi?” 

Warlock snorted his laughter while Adam squealed with giggles himself. Crowley snuggled him tight and propped his chin on his head. 

It would be fine, Crowley mused hopefully as he watched Lucifer ham it up. His silly boys, his cockeyed co-parenting with his ex and Warlock's biomom, his open plans and _friendship_ with Uriel Asante and more secretive dreams only detailed anonymously on _Stargazer's Pub_. Even his issues with Celestial Bodies Modeling Agency and Gabriel Celestial- it all seemed surmountable. 

“Well now I don't know,” Lucifer was saying when he shook himself from his thoughts. “Warlock, should we allow your Pop to invite his bookangel home if he _doesn't know who I am?_ Does he know who _you_ are, love?” That was directed at Crowley and accompanied by comically arched eyebrow. 

Crowley was very familiar with that teasing eyebrow, and even more of his anxiety evaporated. Lucifer was _trying_ for once. It was all Crowley could ask of him for now. 

With a bright, gap-toothed smile, Warlock looked right into Crowley's eyes, nodded and turned to his father. “He makes Pop happy.” Then he quirked an eyebrow thoughtfully. “And he has really weird stuff in his shop! I bet it's haunted, wouldn't that be wicked?” 

“High praise,” Crowley quipped cheerfully, the flow of his happiness still singing in his veins. 

“Do you know anything about his natal chart, his sun sign at the least?” Lucifer asked once the giggling had settled. “Because Agnes Nutter's book on compatible houses suggests particular things for happiness with a sun in Libra. And with your moon in Leo and your Venus in Gemini? Very particular balance there. Of course, dear Agnes describes this most candidly with her wisdom.” 

With rising horror, Crowley realized Lucifer moving onward from thinking of him as a romantic partner meant he might begin seeing Crowley as a _project_ instead. He had to pinch back this growth right now. Lucifer was still Lucifer, after all, and he would slither tendrils of interference within any relationship Crowley built with Aziraphale if left unchecked. 

“Luce. Lucifer!” He freed an arm from Adam's octopus grasp and snapped his fingers until Lucifer ceased his praises over his favorite astrologer. 

“It's, foolproof, Anthony, I hope you realize,” Lucifer defended. “The stars don't lie.” 

“Listen,” Crowley said, his grin bordering on manic. “This is very important to me.” He offered a glare fit to make anyone expecting him to be 'The Demon' proud. “We are going to keep Agnes Nutter and her godda- gosh darned astrology and her fu- silly horoscopes away from Aziraphale Fell. Got it?” 

Lucifer only rolled his eyes and somehow gained Warlock on his side, mimicking the gesture as only a ten year old could. Crowley could see what was coming and hid his reluctant smile of resignation in Adam's puff of hair. 

“For now, love,” Lucifer finally demurred, a rare capitulation for him. “But remember, even if you deny it.” His brown eyes went wide and his expression went very serious. “You need to listen to her advice one day. Agnes is always right.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some models mentioned are actual people and this data is all out of Vogue: Giselle Norman out of London: Storm Models and New York: Woman Management (18 in 2019), Ugbad Abdi out of Next Management Muslim woman who chooses to wear a hajab during runway, Gilles Souteyrand – 40 and also personal trainer, Laith Ashley De la Cruz FTM trans model out of Slay Model Management Agency and was first trangender man to be featured in a Diesel campaign. 
> 
> Many models are contracted with different agencies depending on the country they are working in. that was far too much for me to mess around with, so I've stuck with one.
> 
> I realized upon edit that I made Lucifer and Crowley blink at each other after their 'discussion' like house cats confirming they are cool with the cat (or human) they've confronted
> 
> The entertaining coincidences continue. I searched for British wartime singers to choose a record for Aziraphale to be playing, and wikipedia suggested Vera Lynn, who apparently was known for "We'll Meet Again", "The White Cliffs of Dover", "A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square" and "There'll Always Be an England". I had a nice giggle over it.


	20. Fleur Sauvage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> scorpio horoscope from cafeastrology
> 
> So I do spend time considering chapter titles because they help me organize this beast and recall what was covered since I wasn't about to write chapter summaries. There's a whole flower thing going on here, mental growth and plants etc. and the photoshoot at greenhouse. So I think I'm being clever, right? Using my outdated high school french, la dee da. 
> 
> Meanwhile, this is the chapter my beta still insists on calling horny!Crowley even now.

*

_Scorpio- The Moon spends the day in your social sector, dear Scorpio, inspiring you to reach out to others. There can be some minor tension as the Sun and Pluto form a minor challenging aspect. It can be all too easy to work yourself up about things that you can't truly control. You may feel that you're out of the loop or in the dark about a matter, and this can be frustrating, but consider that you may very well not need to know. If others are being difficult, try your best to detach yourself. Be on the lookout for a perfectionistic attitude towards your projects, daily affairs, or studies that might interfere with your enjoyment of other areas of life. Resentments tend to surface, but it can take some time to get to their root, so don't push yourself to find answers immediately._

*

Aziraphale parted from Anathema with a kindly wave from their weekly lunch date, content to move on with his chore list and even more pleased to step away from the trendiness of a space like _Flat White._ He'd take on his far more homey neighborhood locals than the slickness of a cafe like this one, places where those like Crowley's peers might frequent. Beautiful people gracing glossy, well-appointed furnishings. In fact, lately he'd become more aware in regards to the prominence of the fashionable celebrity world around him. He'd never really paid much mind towards models and likely famous faces he personally didn't recognize as they hawked a number of goods or outfits in various adverts. It seemed they were all slender and attractive, with high cheekbones and graceful limbs. 

He snagged a shopping basket near the entrance of a local grocer and made a beeline toward the produce to select tomatoes. And he'd need basil too, he thankfully recalled since his splotchy memory often forgot he'd even purchased herb plants, let alone spared a thought to remember watering them. Idly, he wondered if Crowley would enjoy a salad like the caprese he intended tonight or if he'd choose weightier fare when he could eat to his fill. 

Crowley. He pursed his lips in order to avoid a silly smile in the midst of the produce section. Aziraphale's audacity to shove aside his reservations and indulge a fantasy had paid off handsomely. Good lord, Crowley's lips and the brief shudder Crowley'd experienced as he relaxed into Aziraphale's kiss...

Crowley had appeared incongruous with his sleekness draped across Aziraphale's well-loved sofa. And yet- he looked like he belonged there among the threadbare cushions and frumpy blankets. There was no mistaking his excitement. He wanted to be there with Aziraphale, nearly vibrated with a thrilling eagerness to please that corkscrewed something embarrassingly territorial right into a tiny, feral part of Aziraphale's gut. 

His shopping continued, selecting a more varied collection of tea and a carton of eggs. He paused near the gossip rags near the till for the first time ever. Crowley would be somewhere in those tabloids, he'd wager. 

“What are you doing, you goose,” he scolded aloud to himself, but he hooked the basket upon his elbow to better grasp one that claimed to hold secrets of _New! York! Fashion! Week!_ He flipped through bountiful 'articles', he supposed they were meant to be, until he stumbled upon a spread featuring photos similar to what he'd seen on Anathema's phone from the event. 

_Reconnection between the Demon and the Morningstar in the works? Sources say A.C. insists he maintains an amicable relationship with L.D., but this author knows a deflection when she sees one._

The snippet accompanied a photo of Crowley in a stylish, formal suit rather close to Lucifer DeVil's equally pristine black-tie ensemble as they leaned in toward each other for a photograph outside some sort of venue. 

Ah. He trapped his tongue between his teeth and bit down gently before he could spiral into self-doubt. Of course there would be photographs of Crowley and Lucifer together at an event attended with each other. And Crowley _had_ been thinking of Aziraphale, it wasn't a line; yesterday had erased any remaining misgivings. 

“Are you in the queue?” 

Aziraphale nearly dropped the paper. A woman near his age with arms full of shopping gestured with her chin at a space before him. He blushed. “Go on ahead of me, just was-” he had no idea how to finish that sentence, caught right out gaping at what amounted to junk journalism. He fumbled the pages closed and dropped it into his basket, flustered but trailing the woman with mild guilt as if she'd caught him drooling over the photos. Crowley would be disappointed in his wasting of money on the thing but there he went, making small talk with the cashier and utterly trying to disguise his interest in the gossip. The woman at the till didn't blink, clearly used to this sort of thing. 

I don't do this! Aziraphale wanted to defend. I don't care about these sorts! But obviously he did, because as soon as he'd wandered in a distracted haze up the street, he claimed the first bench he came across and retrieved the tabloid. Photos of the models comprised a good chunk of the tabloid. Designer clothes and glamorous surroundings prevailed. A collage several pages further offered a shot of Crowley on the runway, tall and strutting, eyes bright and expression proud. 

When he glanced up from the paper, bothered by a passing man shouting into his mobile, he studied the crowded pavement while deep in thought. He continued to be flummoxed by Crowley's impeccable beauty center stage appearing untouchable and aloof. But the same man had also skulked around cheesy souvenir shops for silly things to bring to his sons. He'd also poked around Manhattan until selecting an item he thought Aziraphale might treasure.

Any of these people out enjoying their day or scurrying between work appointments might be someone famous Aziraphale didn't recognize. Or partners with one. Some of the models in the tabloid he stuffed back into his canvas tote must come home to a maths teacher or custodian, right? Crowley could come home to a wonky-brained booksel-

That wasn't true though, was it, he admitted while rising from the bench. He retraced his meandering steps toward home. For the first time, he did so with an eye toward looking for evidence of _himself_. He veered right back into the grocery with his canvas sack slung over his shoulder, wary of the eggs. _There._ Not even half a minute of searching, and he saw a newspaper mentioning Agnes's daily horoscope in section 2. He stepped out of the shop now, eyes wide. There. A rival's shop he still frequented because, in the end, bookshops were comfortable. Through the bay window, he could see an entire display featuring every book he'd ever penned, including annuals of his syndicated columns he didn't even know existed. A sign indicated his latest was due in October, highly anticipated. He stumbled back, right into a passerby who grunted and flipped him a vulgar gesture. 

“That wasn't necessary,” he grumbled. He glanced once more through the window and moved on, the evidence solidifying before his eyes. It was easy to read the houses, fulfill simple horoscopes, and hand things off to move onward, never really needing to interact with the public. He'd seen the figures; he knew Agnes had a wide circulation and was beloved. 

With growing awareness, it occurred to him he'd never even searched for Agnes on the internet, trusting Anathema and Newt to feed him information, trusting them... he slowed his brisk walk, the knowledge settling heavily. He'd been relying for years now on Anathema's and then Newt's protection, a decade at least since Agnes Nutter's work became a household name and her mysterious, reclusive nature grew infamous. Fielding calls or interviews, private investigators, curious documentary filmmakers... Anathema had fended off them all for Aziraphale so he could enjoy his anonymity.

He spun with his back pressed against a nearby wall. His grocery sack hung limply from his hand. What a complete an utter twat he'd been. How selfish. How callous. He scrabbled through the bag for the tabloid, wrinkled now from handling. There was the gossip page over Crowley, with a slightly grainy enlarged photo that'd caught him without his sunglasses for once, amber eyes bright and wide and amused smirk upon his lips specifically acknowledging the paparazzi. 

Would he still playfully smile at Aziraphale like that if he knew about Agnes? If Aziraphale was open about it all to the world, would Crowley feel more confident Aziraphale could handle his fame in spite of his vocal disgust with astrology? Would he be disappointed? Many professional astronomers assumed astrologers were idiots; Crowley appeared alternately proud and shy over his own astronomy knowledge. 

Pedestrians appeared to shuffle out of his way thankfully as he walked home, head in the clouds as he dithered over the entire situation. He didn't know Crowley well enough to determine if the grouching over astrology was all bark without bite. He was fairly sure he wasn't ready to expose his deepest secret to someone he'd only just met several weeks ago, no matter their explosive connection. 

What he did know was a tendril of hope had taken root in his heart. If he nurtured it, perhaps that faith would grow strong and flourish like a grand sunflower to carry him through the aftermath of all the changes swirling through his mind. 

*

Steam and blessedly needed hot water cranked to the massage setting gradually eased Crowley's tight shoulders and dull throb at the base of his neck. A late flight Friday and even later check-in led to an early Saturday with his team and Uriel as they prepared for the Sunday morning shoot at the reserved space within the Jardin des plantes de Paris. 

Uriel hadn't blinked when Crowley indulged in several spongy, iced petit fours, curious if he should locate a bakery and bring some back home with him. Gabriel had glared from across the table. The atmosphere throughout the day ranged from excessively terse during the full team meeting with Uriel's staff to a more sedate final fitting of the gown with an efficient and thankfully quiet assistant to Uriel. 

Crowley's evening concluded with a business dinner out, still thick with stilted animosity between Uriel and Gabriel. Finally, he stumbled back to his hotel room feeling both worn and relieved to be away from the arguing and fussy details. He pushed the heat as far as it could go, wincing some when he tipped his head back into the flow so droplets stung briefly upon more tender skin. Hot water was also a no-no; he'd hear from Madame Tracy over it tomorrow, and Hastur would likely have his nuts in a vice over stripping down natural oils in his hair before a shoot. 

Whatever. Maybe he'd spring for a deep tissue massage when this was all over. He opted to skip shampoo and conditioner (no need to test his theory on Hastur vs. his balls) and soaped himself up with a fruity gel he'd snagged from the sink. He'd taken a massage class once on a lark. It came in handy for seduction and general relaxation of his partner as well as working the kinks from a raw muscle. He wondered if Aziraphale would be amenable one day? 

“Jumping the gun a little,” he muttered through a stream of soapy water and wound up with it's bitterness on his tongue. But what if? To get his fingers on Aziraphale's skin. To smooth out some of the tightness apparent in how he carried himself. Crowley shivered some and couldn't resist imagining it, picturing the little bare flashes he'd already caught and filling in the rest with imagination. He rinsed the soap from his own skin and froze with a sudden thought. 

Aziraphale had survived a traumatic crash and recovery. Were there trigger areas on his body beyond his brain injury? Perhaps he'd need a bit of research first. There ought to be resources out there for safe, intimate massage for chronic injury if necessary. He wanted to give pleasure to Aziraphale, feel his tension melt soft beneath his hands. Perhaps a bath first? Yesssssss. He'd put money on it as a vice of his hedonistic little bookangel, the way he indulged in sensation. 

It was easy to brace his back at the shower wall, easy to take himself in hand and wonder if Aziraphale would do something similar in the grand cast iron tub Crowley envisioned. Aziraphale's head would nearly be submerged in mounds of bubbles like an angel tucked into fluffy clouds. A naughty little angel, Crowley corrected based upon how feisty he'd gone when he'd allowed some of his cautions to slip. Crowley stroked languidly, shuddering with the heady rush of warmth. 

The steam sat thick in the air, and his fingers moved slick with soap while his fertile imagination provided an alluring vision of Aziraphale, relaxed, wrists flashing bare in a brief tease poised above the bubbles like the startling glimpse of rolled up sleeves from only days ago. Aziraphale would likely touch himself with a gentleness similar to how he caressed the spines of his books, a decadent savoring without the sharp ache of edging. A slow glide, perhaps a tightened grip near the head, the luxury of it all hidden by frothy, iridescent bubbles while his pleasure would remain evident in half-lidded eyes and an increasingly tousled mass of curls from lolling his head along the bathtub rim. 

_Crowley!_ he'd breathe, just as he had the moment his fingers tenderly held the bookmark in hand. The wonder and passion so blatant to Crowley's ears within the shop would tease far more suggestive, far more sultry if Aziraphale curled that same palm around himself within the veil of those bubbles. 

Would Aziraphale give a sweet, appreciative moan low in his throat same as his audible delight in something tasty passing between those plump lips when he reached his peak as a beautifully panting, flushed pink mess? Fuck, he would, wouldn't he, Crowley decided, his movements swift, fist growing clumsy and frantic. His spine arched against slippery tiles as he rolled his hips into it, breath hitching in clipped gasps echoing loud in the surrounding closed-off space only to punch hard, a half choked, euphoric sound while he fractured into a million slivers of a potent and deep satisfaction. 

He felt wrecked and invigorated in turn on shaky legs and so, so utterly blitzed out in mellow comfortableness. One twist of the faucet to end the shower and he was sliding into brushed-cotton pajama bottoms and toweling the flat of his belly and chest in a drowsy sort of haze, his mind only softly hissing Aziraphale's name on repetition while he built a snug cocoon as best he could in the hotel bed. 

*

An unknown amount of time passed while he lounged in a content, sleepy-eyed pile of limbs. When a steady knock thumped at his door, the idea of climbing out of bed was so unappealing he groaned as Adam might toward encouragement of eating his cooked greens.

“ 'M asleep,” he attempted before stuffing his face into the pillow. The suite he occupied was just large enough anyone at the door wouldn't hear him speak, let alone decipher his mumbled words. He was forced to drag his wobbly self up and stumble over. A glimpse through the peek-hole revealed Gabriel's plastic smile, his eyes tightly lined in angry slashes unlike the pleasant crinkles appearing within the corners of Aziraphale's or even Lucifer's eyes with their genuine grins.

He huffed out an exhausted sigh. “What do you want now? We're done for the evening.” Something instinctive urged him to slip the chain onto the door. He was thankful he did when Gabriel knocked again, saying with his brash, American loudness, “Crowley! Good thing you're not asleep. Open up! We need to connect and discuss some upcoming prospects.” 

“Now?” Crowley flipped the lock and opened the door to the length of the chain, half a hand-span's width. Gabriel crowded the area and slipped his fingers into the space like a creeping vine. 

“Come on now, Crowley. You're away. No rugrats to cramp your style. Lucifer back home out of mind.” Gabriel chuckled. “You wouldn't leave me out here when you've got this entire suite to yourself.”

“Er. Yes?” He smothered a yawn and stepped back from Gabriel's questing fingers now pulling inefficiently at the chain. “Do you want bags under my eyes tomorrow? Talk to me in prep. I'm already in bed.”

“I can see that,” Gabriel said, and the words slid out so indecently greasy, Crowley felt uncomfortable enough to cross his arms over his bare chest. The low hum of pleasure he'd found in the shower vanished and left a feeling akin to the walls of a sewer. 

“So I'm gonna lock this now. Goodnight.” When he made to push the door shut though, Gabriel jammed the very tip of his pointed toe leather brogues into the crack. 

“Unchain the door, Anthony.” It sounded like an order. 

“We'll talk tomorrow in prep,” he repeated more firmly. “Or even better,” he realized, now wanting to assure they wouldn't be left alone, “with Michael when we get back.” 

Gabriel's voice went low, coaxing. “We don't need Michael's input on something between you and I, do we now? You're _special_ to Celestial Bodies. To me, personally, as a great friend to Lucifer. We need to discuss your image and your future. Away from envious ears. You have...” he paused here and pressed one light brown eye, sans violet contacts for once, against the opening of the door. His voice dropped another register, softening. “Opportunities solely for your benefit. Guidance only I can provide with my personal experience to someone as talented and desirable to the world as you are. Let me in, Crowley.”

Crowley stepped back a pace, revolted. The suggestiveness in Gabriel's voice gave him unpleasant shivers. “Back up so I can shut my door. Please,” he added in an attempt to keep things civil. “Or I'll leave it like this. I'm going back to bed. Need my beauty sleep.” He stepped away once more so most of Gabriel became a blurry shadow between the slice of vertical space between door and frame. He swallowed and hoped it'd been muffled. Even with his arms tightly wrapped in a self-hug, he felt chilled. His still-damp hair left an icy wetness to his back and shoulders. 

The low chuckle returned, and Gabriel thankfully moved away from the door. “Such a diva,” he cooed. “I don't know if our Uriel's been telling you stories about me. She and I, we had a bit of a tiff a while back. Little bit of a misunderstanding. She say anything to you, Anthony? Because it wouldn't be like that between us, you know. Between you, Lucifer and I, we have _history_.”

With one brisk movement, Crowley stepped forward and pushed the door shut, throwing the bolt immediately. “There's nothing we need to discuss _about my career_ in my hotel room. Alone. Two hours from midnight. Goodbye,” he tossed out as he retreated to the bed to scoot beneath the covers. He snatched his mobile off the side table, pleased his fingers weren't trembling, and texted Lucifer a brief: 

_We need to talk about Gabriel._

After a moment of thought, he sent a second one to Uriel of the same. At last, he was able to drop his head back onto the pillow and string his rattled thoughts together. His dreamy, soft mood had turned to dust, replaced by a strained sort of discomfort. Gabriel was growing bolder. It was becoming something Crowley couldn't ignore. After his showy words to Lucifer over harassment within the industry back in New York, he hadn't really considered how he might follow through such an undertaking. It was time to start chipping at the problem. 

He breathed out slow, forcing himself to think of better things instead so he might salvage some of the evening for sleep. Up on a hill, silent and alone with just his telescope and a clear sky. Pedal slapped down as far as it could go while he pushed his Bentley to its top speed out on country roads. Adam tucked beneath his chin and Warlock curled into his side while they watched a movie together camped out on the sofa. And a new entry to his catalog of happy places, too soon but there anyhow, pressed to Aziraphale's comforting side, on his ratty sofa or the bench that day in St. James park. He settled at last and regained some of the peace he'd lost. 

*

To: Ophiuchus.and.serpens @ gmail.com  
Cc/Bcc:  
Subject: Greetings

I sincerely hope this electronic mail finds you enjoying your photography session in Paris. I indeed would be delighted to see 'untouched photographic proofs' of the gown you describe if you are allowed to share them upon your return. As per your inquiries: I accept your invitation to attend dinner at your home the following Saturday. I do happen to own a cast iron bathtub, original with the shop flat. I compensated someone to restore it not long ago! If you are interested in purchasing one for your home, I'd be happy to advise. I look forward to seeing you. 

Take care,

Aziraphale Fell

AZFellBooks @ AOL.com

\----

Crowley read his e-mail with his phone in one hand and a toothbrush jammed into his mouth with the other. He smiled around mint foam. Last evening had jerked his emotions around far too much. Today though, Crowley would be _prepared_. He couldn't control what Gabriel said or did, only keep his own reactions steady and be aware. He wouldn't push Uriel to reveal secrets before she was ready, but he would continue to offer a safespace. What he could do for now, though, was to bury his uncertainties deep and bluster his way heedlessly through his workday. 

And think about Aziraphale, one newfound bright spot in all these difficult issues. A little over a month and he was absolutely bewitched by his little bookshop angel, so unassuming and yet- he glanced once more at the formally worded message and tossed his mobile onto a basket offering dry hand-towels so he could finish up- so fascinating. There were depths to Aziraphale even the man himself didn't seem ready to embrace, but Crowley caught brief hints of it here and there, little signs there was so much more to him just waiting to unfold like the slow bloom of a flower. 

Crowley splashed cool water onto his face and did nothing else so Madame Tracy would have a fresh canvas for whatever look she and Uriel had discussed for this photoshoot. 

Aziraphale, his angelic little blossom. Crowley grinned at his reflection a bit too salaciously for this early in the morning and decided he'd keep that disgustingly sappy observation to himself. Perhaps his mind had gone to flowers thanks to the impending shoot within the grandes serres du Jardin des plantes, but if Aziraphale _was_ a tightly wound little bud, Crowley would tease him open a petal at a time like a patient and devoted gardener. 

*

Prep flew by quickly with the low buzz of a mash of languages and very noticeably, no Gabriel. 

“Uriel conveniently discovered mounds of paperwork just this morning related to our rental of the greenhouse over at this fancy botanical garden. He needed to read through them all and sign, though the poor thing isn't very fluent in French.” Tracy filled Crowley in with a knowing glance up from the powder pan she'd blended for him this morning. 

“Really? Convenient.” Crowley mumbled the words so as not to earn a disapproving stare from her. 

Hastur had been fairly silent up until now as he concentrated on adding temporary extensions to Crowley's hair. “Anything keeping him from creepin' 'round while I get shit done's fine with me. He don't understand this is _ART_!” He waved a ginger extension carefully dyed to match Crowley's own natural color. “Thinks ya jus'clamp it all on and spray it some? Call it day? Let's jus' have any ol' arsehole off the street do it then, yeah?”

Crowley settled in the chair and tried not to snort at Hastur's rant. He hadn't realized how tense he'd been, but the moment he relaxed, Madam Tracy said quietly, “There's a love, calm yourself. Uriel's on top of things. I miss working on her. It's lovely we're pairing up for this! And you!” She patted him on the shoulder as a light scolding. “The suit in New York she designed for you and not a word!”

“You and Hastur are a part of our big collab,” he soothed. “Uriel's got a lot planned.” 

“I always have plans,” Uriel said as she stepped into the tight area they'd cordoned off for his prep in the hothouse. She carried the gown carefully before her. The deep red and black ombre silk seemed to absorb the the light so the color became richer. “Steamed and ready. Are you?”

“Why ye want his hair down to his arse I donno, but it's done.” The tugging on Crowley's head ceased. Hastur circled him with a critical expression. “Humidity will fuck it up so don't dick around.”

“Nearly there.” Tracy touched up his eyes and leaned back. “Careful now. It's damp.”

Crowley peered around the shimmering glass both transparent to the sunlight and reflective of the varied greens and browns and bright slashes of red and violet of the greenhouse plants. While he found the surroundings offering a comfortable and sedative quality, Hastur had a point in regards to the thickness in the air. This area housed a range of thin and broad leaved tropicals, some so large they kissed the glass above. This sort of environment would be brutal for lens-ready make-up and hair, let alone the dress itself. 

“A hothouse, Uriel? After that shoot we did in the southern part of Thailand?” Crowley asked beneath his breath as she guided him to stand and step carefully into the gown. 

“Well _now_ I remember,” Uriel answered just as softly. She attended to the fastenings and Crowley caught the barest flash of a sheepish smile. “Perhaps I became wrapped up in my design and the artistry of it all and failed to consider some things.” Her expression retreated to it's usual severity with just a touch of humor. “You mention I have any doubts about 'my vision' to the team or my other three models and I'll skin you alive, of course.” 

Crowley grinned and settled into the gown, now fit precisely to his angles and shapes. “You're a real designer now, Uriel! Dream up your atmosphere and let everyone else figure out how to make it happen. Very haute couture of you.” 

“Ha. That is _not_ couture.” She made several adjustments to the back and hummed an appreciative noise. “Nothing will be as horrible as the L.A. shoot. You'll love the photographer I've selected for you. American. She's been out of the business for a while but holds an MFA from Yale. ”

Teasing her was fun, but Crowley knew it was time to slip into a more professional mode. He wanted Uriel to understand he respected the move she'd made from model to head of her own design house. “What do you want from me.” 

She accepted the shift gracefully. “Think clandestine meetings with someone you shouldn't. Think confidence in your sexuality. Think powerful.” 

“Think crush under my heel?” he suggested with a sly grin, already considering poses and movement to best suit the gown. 

“Not that sort of power,” she decided with a shake of her head. 

Their secluded conversation was interrupted by partially muffled steps and Gabriel's somewhat condescending, “Now now, Asante. Crowley's whole image involves crushing the world beneath him.” His mouth curled into something that wasn't quite a smile but also not a frown as he met her eyes. “One of the photographers requested your presence to verify something when you're finished here. I need a word with my talent.” His attention turned to Crowley, but his expression remained impenetrable. 

“Crowley?” she asked. 

The greenhouse was bustling by now, the crew readying the area and attending to flaws. Lights and reflectors had been placed before he'd even arrived. Several other models, unknown to Crowley but clearly wearing Uriel's creations were in various states of readiness with their own teams. Between production staff, stylist teams, and photography, the area of the greenhouse secured for Uriel's shoot was fairly crowded. He spared a thought for the plants' health. 

“I'm good. Let me know when you're ready for me.” 

The moment Uriel walked away, Gabriel's expression softened. “Your beauty sleep did you favors. You're the most admirable one here, you know, Crowley. You need to capitalize on it.” 

Crowley fixed the strap on the pumps he'd been offered, not even willing to play the game after last night. He remained more than an arms width away from Gabriel, who'd began crowding him the moment Uriel was out of sight. “Editorial's for Uriel's feature in _Harper's Bazaar_. I'm just a living dressform here.” 

“You need this, Crowley.” Gabriel spoke in a harsh whisper. “As much as I hate to admit it, Uriel Asante is going to be huge. Virgo and Libra are ideal for work harmony this month and you need to _use her_ when it's best aligned. ”

The disgusted sneer which instantly appeared on Crowley's face hopefully conveyed what he thought of _that_. 

“Don't look at me like that. You've been dangerously skirting my boundaries with your image. Don't think I didn't see that asinine sweater photo from a while back.” 

Crowley glanced up from his contorted bend from fastening his shoes and brushed his hair from his eyes. Gabriel wore impeccable Tom Ford, overdressed for the occasion, his violet contacts, and had slicked his hair back. Crowley'd known him as a manager for a decade and more casually as Lucifer's friend for over half of that time. He'd changed so much; or Crowley'd just opened his eyes for once. He used to respect Gabriel's advice and guidance. But as time passed and his verbal and hands-on 'encouragements' increased, Crowley only felt angry and vaguely sickened. He caught Uriel's eyes from across the room near the photographers and the subtle movement of her head indicating their readiness. 

“Gotta go.” He swept past Gabriel and shoved all his issues over him into a box. Focus. The other models were present, all in gowns of various shades featuring the same ombre effect. 

Uriel gave them a quick rundown of her vision and the time frame she was able to secure in the popular botanical greenhouse. Then she introduced her photography team contracted for this shoot. 

The hair extensions were beginning to irritate when Crowley was introduced to the photographer he'd be working with. 

“Harriet soon-to-not-be Dowling,” she said, offering a hand. “I've done a few sessions with Uriel already but this is my biggest. I'm a big fan of your work.” 

“ 'Soon to not be'?” 

Harriet glanced up from where she'd been attaching a lens and offered a wink. “You know it. Right in the middle of divorcing the U.S. Ambassador to England. Went back to my first love, a Canon DSLR.” 

“Scandalous,” Crowley murmured. He liked her spirit and hoped they would work well together. He looked over his shoulder at where Madame Tracy, Hastur, and Gabriel were gathered on the opposite side of the space. Uriel was already at work touching up another model's aqua and black ombre gown, complimentary to Crowley's design but stylistically different. 

They got to it right away, Crowley picking up the cues almost on instinct as Harriet worked through Uriel's desired shots. It was grossly humid, but the plants and the greenhouse itself offered an earthy calming scent. Fake twinkly stars strung between tangled branches were lit aesthetically but not bright enough to interfere. 

Crowley'd just gotten into a sweet spot of concentration when Uriel swept in calling, “Hold!” Within moments, he was primped up and sweat dabbed, with Tracy fussing and Hastur complaining passionately over the humidity. The extensions pulled Crowley's hair taught, but the loose pieces were frizzing in the dampness in a way that seemed to vex both Hastur and Uriel. 

“Silk should handle this,” Uriel said, only a hint of her frustration detectable. She made adjustments throughout the gown while Crowley held still. 

“Gonna try something else, love,” Madame Tracy said, blotting his cheeks. “It's working on that lovely girl in the green, and your complexion is similar.” 

Crowley only grunted assent and shut his eyes. Blocking out one sense enhanced the others. In spite of the difficulties, it was a rather pleasant location with gorgeous scenery and a deep scent of earthiness. Even their voices seemed muffled by the greenery and water features. He kept a decent collection of potted things along a south facing wall of windows himself. The boys' herb garden, safely edible in Adam's case, lined the bottom shelving. He'd show it all to Aziraphale soon.

Aziraphale in his penthouse, indulging in a meal Crowley prepared with his own hands, perhaps settling on his furniture within Crowley's arms. What would his boys think of it all? And he shouldn't be so keen to fantasize Aziraphale in his bed where no one had been invited in the two years he'd had his own place. Knew it was best to remain unrushed and respectful. His imagination was a different story, shameless and nimble and galloping ahead with a dizzying array of fantasies. 

“How're ya so disgustingly cheerful, Crowley!” Hastur barked from where he slicked argan oil to the extensions. “'S awful in here. Jus' saying the truth, Asante. Fuck whatever reprobate you consulted. You come talk to me when you get a bright idea.” 

“Oh, it'll be fine," Madame Tracy soothed. "I recall the style challenges we adapted to in Kenya when filming _Out of Africa_ , all sorts of creativeness for Meryl Streep's hair and cosmetics. Now you, young man,” she nudged Crowley and he blinked his eyes open in the brightness. “What's got you in such a mood, sly smile and all?” 

He just hummed and popped his neck the second Hastur set him free. 

Uriel fiddled with the chains delicately draping over his spine. “Good. Now I'd like to see you by the green thing near the water feature.” 

“The Monstera?” Crowley asked. He eyed the foliage dubiously as he approached. It wasn't a specimen he'd deem worthy of a highly visited botanical garden. He spread his arms and lifted a deliberate eyebrow. “Welp?”

“You're correct, Harriet. The shade of those leaves contrasts with the gown nicely,” Uriel turned to say, and then her attention came back to Crowley. “Quickly, as I need to check Giselle's gown. Have you thought on joining Dagon and I for the additional piece to the Celestial celebration? Michael said I should mention our theme will be a celebration of the mingling of astrology and astronomy because it would draw your interest.” 

Crowley darted his eyes upward from where he'd leaned in to study the plant. He wondered if his hesitation was apparent. “You say Dagon had me in mind when developing this project?” he verified. 

“She does. In her words, she's impressed with your 'flexibility' and prior experience as an art model.” 

The blush Crowley abruptly experienced at how she'd worded that annoyed him. One one hand, it would be an incredible opportunity, doubly so in how they'd offered to him first rather than work it through Gabriel. But he could draw resentment from other models contracted with Celestial Bodies; it was one thing to walk for her. The addition of an entire photography gallery featuring him might ruffle some who already found him privileged. He'd seen her past projects... it would be interesting, to say the least. “Have her bring her proposal to our official C.B. meeting.” 

“Excellent.” Uriel nodded at Harriet. “He's all yours.” 

Crowley scanned the conservatory for the others, models he hadn't worked with but would eventually today in group shots. His shoes pinched and the extensions were proving to be uncomfortable. He reconsidered the idle thought he'd had of black dye and hacking half of his hair off. 

Harriet made several more adjustments to her equipment and met Crowley's eyes. “Hope that'll keep the lens from fogging this time. Now let's set your scene for this piece. You know something we don't. You're meeting someone you shouldn't on the downlow and are very pleased with yourself over it. Gimmie that and you're gold.” 

“Fantastic,” he quipped and meant it. Clicking with his photog was always a game of randomness, and their collaboration was looking up. He threw himself into it, still buoyant from his earlier very pleasant thoughts on Aziraphale's impending visit. A spin, a twist. Pause here and take on a contrapposto pose to really emphasize the sway of the material. The silk whispered at his damp skin sensuous and elegant, an unexpected delight as he learned how this design moved. 

“That's it, baby!” Harriet called out from where she squatted, enormous camera in hand. “We're hitting details in a minute, but I need you to gimmie some leg now, handsome thing you are! Tip your chin up, eyes shut! That's beautiful. Hold!”

He slipped into a hazy space of movement, focused on Harriet's prompts with an extraordinary awareness of breadth of motion suitable for the gown.The warmth and dampness became irrelevant now as he worked the material to his advantage. He envisioned Uriel's approval and the admiration Aziraphale might fail to disguise in his evershifting blue-gray eyes upon seeing the final product. The resulting expression he offered Harriet's camera wasn't quite the erotic spiciness she'd requested, but he was helpless to it and spun as if he meant to give air to the flow of the gown and not because he needed to hide- 

“Crowley!” Gabriel's bark startled him and rattled Harriet enough that she fumbled her camera. 

Crowley froze. Shit. 

“Give me a minute with my talent, young lady.” Gabriel brushed past Harriet, pompous and dismissive as ever. She glanced up from her propped squat with a bewildered expression. It angered Crowley more than anything, Gabriel's condescending tone. Crowley's enviable professional chemistry with his photographer, an ideal give-and-take duet not always met with someone new was fractured by Gabriel's interruption. 

“She holds an advanced degree in the arts and spent the last few years as the wife of the American ambassador to Britain,” Crowley defended. “She's not just some 'young lady'.”

As expected, Gabriel ignored him. “Where is your head lately!” He made to grab at Crowley's hip. 

“It's silk!” Crowley hissed and narrowed his eyes. Gabriel gripped his elbow instead. “I'm doing fine here,” he switched tack. “If Uriel has an issue, she'll-”

Gabriel leaned close, his attention flicking away to various points in the room only to return to meet Crowley. “My concern here is you, and only you. The others? Three separate management agencies represented. Whatever the hell Uriel was thinking when her loyalty-”

“Maybe, oh, I don't know, she was thinking like an _independent designer?_ ” Crowley attempted to wrench his arm away, caught between his discomfort and dislike of making a scene when it would disturb those he respected. 

“I don't know what's gotten into you!” Gabriel whispered. “Or whom, because I know it hasn't been Lucifer,” His grip on Crowley's elbow went soft and his concerned expression returned. 

Crowley considered stepping on his toes and tried to yank his arm without mussing the gown. “Let me go.”

He shook his head and spoke nearly beneath his breath. “Crowley, Crowley, Crowley. It's grown apparent you need someone firm to take you in hand. Where's the fierceness and fire? Where's the sex? No one wants to pin the 'nice guy' to their bedroom wall and beat-off over their calendar.” He chuckled, and Crowley _did_ rip his arm out of Gabriel's grip in spite of any marks it might make. His stomach churned, but mostly, he experienced an overwhelming sense of disgust. Aziraphale had said he was more than his body and Crowley _believed him_.

“You're a pervert,” was what he settled for with a challenging glare. 

“I'm just telling you what the people want!” Gabriel held both palms outward to him like Crowley was a horse to be calmed. “But you want to work with her again in spite of all my misgivings? You wanna be the go-to for L' Occulte Ethere? You better show me the Demon. Or I'll ride you so hard out in the field you won't have time to even be offered another contract with her beyond the 50th gala next spring.” He stepped back with a knowing expression. “You're mine, Crowley. Two whole years, and do you think you'll be able to walk away even then? You need me.” With that, he turned to Harriet and waved a hand at her in a loose gesture as he walked away. “I'll let you have him back. He'll behave now.” 

“What a complete asshat,” Harriet spit out once Gabriel had cleared earshot. 

Crowley shot her a sly smirk. “He thinks he's getting to me because he used to. Doesn't really know me. Not anymore,” he added, mostly to himself. 

“ Well. I can say he's a pig. Douchebag's not my boss.” She approached Crowley slow, respecting his space. “Are you good to continue? For what it's worth, I thought you'd been amazing.” 

“Yeah. 'M ready.” And he _was_ good. Gabriel wanted fierce? Gabriel wanted to think he'd 'inspired' Crowley? Gabriel could fondle himself to that thought but Crowley knew for a fact his motivation was internal. 

“Back to business. I was given instructions from Uriel, and I'm going by those. She wants clandestine rendezvous. Sneaking around with someone you shouldn't. Alright, sweetie, let's get you goin'.”

Wasn't too difficult for him to slip into a headspace again, sensual and tempting, Harriet's words setting the scene and emotions Uriel wanted for her spread. He shook off his encounter and allowed his mind to drift. 

“Just like that, Crowley. They all want you. They can't have you. You've got someone, you've escaped out here to meet them, someone you shouldn't but you can't help it.” 

His fantasy spiraled outward- he's snuck in here, a clear night full of stars, and he's beneath the glass. He's ducked away from some fussy function in this fluid, silk gown, the material light and skimming his hips. He's away from the greedy eyes feasting upon the low-cut, swooping back baring nearly all his spine and threaded with sparkling gold chaining. Away from the disapproving glares upon his exposed collarbones and slit of material high at his thigh, a gentleman in a silk evening gown and wearing it _well,_ making them question their sexuality when their eyes cannot tear away. 

“Gimmie it, sweetie, the camera loves how you move that silk, spin it for me, yes, baby, that's it!” 

He turned now, sly quirk to his lips over his shoulder into the camera but in-truth unseeing as his daydream uncoiled. 

\- He's got the stem of a wine glass in his hand and what's he doing? Is he waiting? Yes. But he doesn't know why until Aziraphale wanders in, eyes electric blue beneath the moonlight and expression full of wonder. Does he know Crowley? No, he thinks, but they catch each other's stare across the room, strangers but not, drawn by some irresistible pull. Aziraphale moves close, isn't turned off by a man in heels more than a full head taller. He's as he'd been when Crowley'd first been struck by interest, no hesitation, uncowed by Lucifer's pushiness and ego, sturdy and confident and so very memorable.-

Invested now, he moved with purpose, camera flashes bright against his eyelids. Harriet's instructions melded seamlessly into his mind and dovetailed with his fantasy until he was lost to it, a perfect groove and so harmonious it took several of Uriel's calls of his name to snap out. 

Uriel stood near, impatient but with a very pleased expression. “Earth to Crowley? You're doing fabulous, my friend, but I need you here with me a moment.” 

He ducked his head sheepishly, but the glow he'd developed inside didn't shrink. “Got into it,” he mumbled, cursing his flush and hoping the thick pressed foundation concealed it. 

“That's a good place to find yourself. You do not need to explain to me; I've been there.” 

A bonus of model turned designer, Crowley realized. He'd been skeptical of Lucifer's changing goals too because it was Lucifer, but he suddenly wondered what it would be like to have a former model who _knew_ what life was like for a model coordinating it all. 

“Now for details of the gown. We're changing things up first.” Crowley stilled and allowed his eyes to flutter shut, relaxing into the second portion of this shoot. Modeled garment detailing could be tedious on it's own, but mid shoot was a lovely break. Madame Tracy was already at work, sponging away cosmetic flaws while Hastur clipped up his hair with extensions as they'd discussed during their endless meetings yesterday. Crowley never felt more like a manikin than he did in this phase, but it allowed him to drift away to the sounds of surrounding discussion. 

Murmuring became background noise while gentle touches and softly spoken praise guided him into position, simple to take in to his consciousness and release. 

Where _had_ he been moments ago? He knew the smile creeping upon his lips would pique curiosity, but he didn't care. 

\- The Aziraphale within his daydream smiles at him the same flirtatious little thing Crowley'd first seen over their initial meal together. Aziraphale's eyes flick over Crowley's body in appreciation, over the gown in the way he can't seem to stop himself from doing even when just chatting over a book purchase. He looks up at Crowley through his thick lashes and shiny lenses and places his blunt, strong fingers upon Crowley's hips- no. Even better. One upon his hip and the other at Crowley's thigh in a way he hasn't done yet, right above the slit of the dress where Crowley's skin flashes in temptation.-

A few taps on his shoulder and Crowley shook away some of his starry-eyed visions. He caught Gabriel's weighted stare from the opposite side of their wing of the greenhouse and averted his gaze.

Uriel picked at an odd fold in the silk, her brow furrowed. “Done with the details. I'll do the same with Kara while zir gown still has it's shape, and we'll regroup in twenty for shots of the full collection. Nice work, Demon, ignore his Grace and knock yourself out with this last bit.” 

He glanced over at Harriet, determined to ignore Gabriel now. She was crouched to the ground, swapping out pieces to her camera he couldn't identify if he tried. 

“Free reign, huh?” She was saying. “This has been great working with you. Any way you might keep me in mind for future projects or spread the word?” She settled onto one knee, her equipment propped on the other. Crowley noticed how hopeful her expression became. “I don't have much of a current portfolio thanks to ex-jagoff's belief my career was 'unsuitable for a politician's wife'.” Her words were laced with both regret and grim determination, a combination Crowley heartily identified with. 

“No problem,” he said breezily, and with that taken care of, he slipped right back to it, this time taking over a wooden bridge scattered with fallen flower petals arcing over a koi pond he'd eyed from afar. 

“Oh, this'll be hot, Crowley, lights good, flowers from whatever those trees are still drifting in the air, water's playing off the reds and black of the silk nicely. Shake it a little for me- yes, once more!” 

Crowley threw some hip into it he hadn't earlier, playing up to the camera with a heated gaze. He _loved_ this, the airiness and liberty without boundaries. Some of his best stuff could come from playfulness, especially with a photog he synced to so nicely. 

“They're asking themselves, who designed that! Who is he? They either want you, baby, or they want to slip that gown onto themselves, hope it makes their hips look as good as yours in it!” 

He grinned, shutting his eyes, imagining Aziraphale's expression at the silly patter of encouragement that was such a common thread in fashion photogs. The best were fun and outlandish, ridiculous and edging on inappropriate admiration without crossing the line because they _were_ using lines, the cheesier the better. 

Twisting into a lean he knew would accentuate the silhouette, he worked the gown as his mind slipped back into a fantasy well developed at this point. 

-In his little sideworld where he's frozen time, he's placing the wine down or even better, he doesn't have the glass at all. He's wandered in here from an afterparty, dulled by the fakery and and falseness and yearning for a miracle, a wish upon stars beneath glass on this beautiful, clear evening. And his sweet bookangel wanders in, hushed and illuminated in silvery moonlight, his ashy curls nearly white within the greenhouse, drawing Crowley like a scarlet and midnight winged moth to brightness, luring him in with shimmering resplendence, glittering pinpricks of light dancing on the frames of his wire glasses-

“That's what I want, Crowley, have fun with it all. Play with it, sweep some of those white petals into your hands, yes, just like that, hold!” 

-Wordlessly, Aziraphale steps close and slowly inches the gown with those plump fingers, the hem sliding up Crowley's thighs until the dainty fabric gathers at his hips and then further to expose the special undergarments he chooses to wear when he wants to smooth the lines from the curves his groin would bring to his silhouette in the gown, tucking his cock away. And of course, Crowley's lost his balance some, overwhelmed, but he's threaded his own fingers into Aziraphale's cottony-soft hair to steady himself while their eyes lock. He knows he would shiver at how Aziraphale stares at him, contemplative and as if holding secrets, and he knows his lips would part, breathless, when Aziraphale drops to his knees-

“Let your hair down again from the clips, babe, there you go, shake it all out and turn for me, yessssss, like that, and now I need your back, the reflection on the gold against your skin is exquisite.”

\- And there, _there_ , the gown spills over Aziraphale's forearms, sleeves rolled and bared now because Crowley wants them to be, and Aziraphale's pressing his scorching mouth right to the hardness of him, pants slipped away, no Gabriel here, no Lucifer, no shocked dismay over his image as he gives himself over to his luscious little angel- 

“Holy shit, Crowley, you're on fire now, gorgeous, rest your arm at the rail, yesssss, like that, melt my lens with that spin why don't you. Now I want your eyes- your beautiful eyes everyone knows you for, come on, sweetie, spin 'round over your shoulder, you've got flowers in your hair now and you've tempted them to have their way with you, you naughty thing, they're yours, or you're theirs, give the camera a look like you want it, you desperately need it, you ache for it!” 

Crowley's eyes snapped open, and he grinned wickedly, all his worries scattering like the soft petals falling around him like snow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flat White Cafe is a real place off Berwick street in Soho
> 
> Aziraphale opened an email account with AOL when he was first introduced to the internet and never updated. 
> 
> More self-indulgence here. I REALLY wanted to set Harriet Dowling free from her jackass husband.


	21. Queen's Gambit Declined

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit more of a gap between posting chapters than I like, but between tent camping and a tropical depression knocking our power out for a while, it's been a pain to get this up online. 
> 
> If you enjoy AU stories, the Good Omen's (Aumen's) AU event began posting work as of the beginning of the month. 
> 
> This was one of the first chapters I wrote back in November. I've been waiting to get to this point in the story solely based on how fun it was to write the two drama queens going head to head.

*

_Horoscope for Libra - June 14, 2020 - Your care and devotion for someone special may prompt you to make a personal sacrifice for their benefit. While Venus, your ruling planet, is receiving beams of support from the caring Moon, do whatever you can to support your loved one’s desire to learn and expand. However you can assist, your thoughtful gesture will be much appreciated. While this is an act of love, others may not understand your willingness to give so much for this person's benefit. Keep this arrangement between just the two of you for the time being._

*

Aziraphale hummed the opening bars of a Strauss II Annen-Polka op117 rendition he'd recently enjoyed as he stripped off his rain slicker and unearthed his bagged purchase from Sweet Treat from the pocket. For an overcast, drizzly Tuesday morning, he felt undeniably chipper. He'd gone for hot cocoa with an indulgent pump of raspberry syrup today, something new and daring for him. The woman behind the counter flashed him a cheeky grin. 

“Not your usual today, Mr. Fell!” she'd said while adding the syrup with a dramatic flourish. 

“No my dear girl,” he recalled answering. “I'm feeling rambunctious today!” 

And he was in spite of the dreary weather and the general repetitiveness of his planned day. Unlike before in his absence, Crowley sent intermittent emails with picture attachments Aziraphale couldn't upload. He didn't mind for now; just the communication alone was enough to calm the low thrum of ever present anxiety.

He shouldn't _need_ the communication. He should trust. No relationship- lover, family or friend- could survive without trust, and hiding Agnes was already a decisive wedge. 

“Silly,” he whispered to himself as he made his environment ready for a day of working on horoscopes and privately contracted natal charts with full readings. The burst of customers and gapers drawn in by Crowley's selfie weeks ago had trickled down to the occasional fan as promised. Would he be able to keep his shop open if the world knew of Agnes? Would he be swamped again? Many people took their horoscopes as a lark, something entertaining and a bit of guidance. Some though, they wagered their entire fortunes on the casting, planned their whole lives around it. Aziraphale had heard of some people who treated it nearly as religion. His eyes flicked upward towards the heavens as if in apology. 

Nevertheless, he made himself comfortable at his typewriter, prepped the ribbon, and lost himself into his work. 

Some time later, the bell above his door jingled. Newt nearly tumbled into the shop appearing rather drenched with muddy galoshes and utterly soaked trouser legs indicating he must have stepped into a puddle. His glasses were steamed up upon entry. 

“Don't want to trek this muck into the shop, Aziraphale, but I thought I'd swing by for your pages.” He attempted futilely to swipe his glasses clear.

Aziraphale took pity on him and once securing the pages in an envelope, he dug through a nearby drawer for a handkerchief and brought it over. 

“On for dinner tonight still?” he asked as Newt attempted his best to see. 

“Yeah, but you know I'd like to try the fish and chip spot that just opened.”

“Something new!” He handed over his pages as soon as able and clasped his hands behind his back. “How wonderful!”

Newt glanced up from his messenger bag with a puzzled expression. “Aziraphale. You're never this excited over a chippie,” he questioned with caution. 

Aziraphale couldn't disguise his smile and had to glance away for a moment. He nearly wiggled in place but stilled himself and looked over at his dear friend and the slowly growing puddle beneath his feet. Even that failed to put a damper on the bright emotions he felt. 

“It's a beautiful day, that's all!” he settled on with a conspiring grin. 

Newt stared at him for a good twenty seconds in disbelief. “It's pissing buckets outside,” he said, and the tone of his voice was so incredulous, Aziraphale could only giggle. 

“One might find beauty even in the heavy grays and turbulent skies. 'There is peace even in the storm',” he quoted, and if it sounded a little too smug even to his own ears, his bullheadedness would see him through. 

Newt tucked his chin down in order to hide his own shy smile. “It's nice to see you in a good mood.” He glanced with more of a wicked glint to his eye. “But Aziraphale. It's still a bit crap outside, isn't it?” 

Aziraphale's entire chest filled up with cheer, and he beamed at the sodden picture Newt made in his doorway. “Oh dear boy, on your right, your other right, see that canister there? Why don't you snag a brolly on your way out? And I shall see you both at seven!” 

“Sounds good, but I'm warning Anathema on your peppy mood!” He wrapped one arm protectively over his messenger bag and stepped outside, opening the umbrella at the last second. 

“Mind how you go, dear boy!” Aziraphale said before pulling his door shut against the wind. He returned to his typewriter and began the instinctive motions of setting it all to rights. Would he be able to make the switch to a computer based system for his writing? His hands stilled on the Corona, it's metal keys warming beneath his fingertips. The thought brought a little acid to his throat. A vintage typewriter was a slow machine, absolutely fit for a slow, recovering brain-injured man.

It served him well and even more so, built up his confidence over the years. He couldn't just abandon it! A new computer would be slick and efficient. He could print his pages if he was so worried for a tactile copy. But what kind of uncaring being would he be, just dumping his faithful Corona because it was clunky, dated, required far too much fussiness. However, even Anathema fought her general distrust in 'the man' and technology and embraced computers and smartphones. 

He couldn't fathom a world where Crowley would even bother with a typewriter when there were so many other flashy options he could have. He pictured his trusty little Corona stuffed into a corner collecting dust, left behind because it couldn't keep up, it wasn't good enough, everyone long tired of it's touchiness and complicated routines just to eek a basic performance out of it. 

“Oh good grief, Aziraphale,” he chastised himself. “ _You_ aren't an antique piece of machinery.” He completed his adjustments and wiped his ink-stained hands off on a nearby wad of paper, only noticing too late it was the tabloid featuring Crowley he'd picked up earlier that week. A handful of pages he'd kept because of the _interesting_ photos they offered. 

He felt his ears burn. 

Ridiculous. He was ridiculous. This very moment, he had e-mails sitting within his in-box from Crowley. All with attached photos he was unable to retrieve on his dated tech. His thoughts were old and outdated. His computer was old and outdated too. But a new one would be good for him. A positive change. With some bonuses, he considered somewhat guiltily as he shut his computer down and thought of the selfie Crowley'd sent of himself and his boys what felt like ages ago with the ice cream and his tongue and...

Well. Enough of that. 

He still had plenty to do and occupied himself with that until well beyond lunch. By the time it was late afternoon, he'd parked himself in a chair comfortably and had his nose buried in _Dating the Single Parent of Young Children_. He was absorbed until the jingle of the bell from his door startled him from his concentration. 

“Goodness. I thought I locked up.” He tucked the book beneath his arm and rose from the chair to offer a greeting. The words never made it past his tongue. Warlock walked toward him, a bounce in his step, trailed by a rather tall, blond, unfairly handsome-

Lucifer DeVil. 

Aziraphale forced a wobbly smile and met Warlock's eyes first as he felt it to be the safer gamble. “Good Afternoon, Warlock! Or early evening, I suppose. I'd actually thought I had closed the shop! How can I help you both?” He shifted the book in his arms- oh Lord, he'd have to find some way to squirrel it away before Lucifer caught him with a dratted _relationship book_.

“I'm delighted you haven't, darling,” Lucifer said, and only then did Aziraphale meet his eyes. Lucifer's light fringe flopped over one brown eye rakishly, and his complexion was flawless. His entire state of being nearly glowed with a particular quality Aziraphale was beginning to think one must be born with. The shoulders of his elegant coat were damp, and Aziraphale fully expected the water molecules to apologize for sullying Lucifer's presence and evaporate. 

“Still raining then?” Aziraphale asked inanely, scrambling for solid ground. His stomach already had pretzeled and he could feel his heart thump. He wondered if Lucifer could hear it. 

“Dreadfully.” He turned to Warlock, who seemed to be watching them both with some glee and not a piece of technology in sight. “Go on and look 'round while we take care of business, sweetling.” 

His attention returned to Aziraphale like a spotlight; immeasurable kilowatts of charismatic energy all concentrated at Aziraphale like some radiant, glorious spectre of the divine. No wonder he'd been nicknamed Morningstar. 

Aziraphale couldn't help glancing behind Lucifer. “No Adam?” he asked without thinking. 

“Oh, as much as the boy is a treasure, sometimes slipping the nanny an extra tenner or two for more time is well worth not having to precisely fasten car seat straps over and over.” He tipped his head in a way that Aziraphale wondered meant he was to commiserate with his struggles. 

“Well how might I help you?” he repeated with some trepidation but effortlessly polite. There was nothing for it. The relationship book stuffed now into the crook of his elbow suggested he make an effort toward kindness when an amicable custody arrangement was in the picture, and now was the time to test that theory. 

Never mind there was no chapter in any of the books he'd read so far covering the special circumstance in how one might approach the international celebrity ex-husband of your current supermodel boy- person of interest. 

Lucifer's eyebrows lifted in query. “You rang me, darling. My book's finally in?” 

Aziraphale's eyes widened. He'd completely forgotten. Abruptly, he recalled leaving a message with a Michael Archangel at some point last week, unwilling to dial Lucifer when he had a perfectly reasonable alternative. 

This he could handle. His hesitation dissolved as he considered the interesting twists and people he'd spoken with during the hunt for _Cosmetology and Style Issues for a Retrograde Mercury._

“Of course, silly me!” His mind already focusing on where he'd placed the book, he spun toward his counter as he shuffled his orders in-waiting in his mind. “Right back here, come along, old chap.” He barely caught the way Lucifer's eyebrow cocked at that.

Oh it really was a beautiful hardcover, even this edition. He offered a soft smile while pulling his twine tie free and slipping the Kraftpaper off the book. Less brittle than the copy he housed in-shop, this book would stand up to being read without requiring too many precautions. He finally looked back up at Lucifer, who'd followed him as prompted with an observant expression. 

“Now it's in good condition overall, dust jacket intact, gilt edges remarkably clean. You'll notice the spine isn't in the most ideal shape and there's more foxing than he let on. The seller embellished his descriptions far too much, I thought.” He couldn't stop his exasperated eye-roll if he tried, and he was unable to temper the snark in his voice. He'd had _words_ with the seller, enough so the man would think twice upon trying to pull one over on him again. “I've done what I could to repair the book to your expectations. I'll still knock off a bit on the price.” He passed it over to Lucifer, who continued to study him rather than the book. 

Aziraphale shuffled his weight from foot to foot and realized he had a stranglehold on the twine and paper in his hands. 

Lucifer's face went sly and his lips curled into a smirk. “That'll be _splendid_ , darling.” He tapped the edge of a black credit card on the countertop and tossed it so it spun in the air.

In fact, Aziraphale was horrified to realize, it landed right onto _Dating the Single Parent of Young Children_ he had unthinkingly placed down, title and illustration of a father holding the hand of a beatific toddler facing upward for all to see. How wonderful. The internationally famous celebrity and fashion model beloved by millions who could probably have anyone he wanted now knew Aziraphale needed self-help in order to date his ex. 

This was fine. Great, in fact. Fantastic! His fingers only shook slightly on the manual card system he used, carbon paper crunching in his fingers as he recorded the sale beneath Lucifer's piercing gaze. 

“So how does one small entrepreneur support oneself in such a desirable location when they're so reluctant to sell books to good upstanding citizens?” 

Aziraphale's eyes flicked upward from his handwritten sales receipt to catch Lucifer's challenging gaze. 

Oh to hell with it all, he thought with a sort of feralness. He handed over the receipt and card. “One chooses to sell books to only those demonstrating an ability to care for such quality things, 'goodness' status notwithstanding, I should think. Shall I rewrap that for you?” He grinned and hoped it didn't appear crazed. 

Lucifer's expression appeared rather calculating, but he handed back the book. “Clever. I of course, hope your sudden instagram and twitter hype hasn't inconvenienced your methods much? Or did it tempt you into a craving for more? Did you _enjoy_ slipping your tongue into a taste of fame?” He dragged the last bit out slow and low as blatant innuendo. 

This was absurd. Aziraphale exhaled a a puff of air and glanced around his shop to pinpoint Warlock. The book specifically stated all grievances should not be aired near the children. “Let's not play coy games. I'm sure you know very well by now how little I am interested in all the shenanigans and trappings that go hand-in-hand with your and Crowley's sort of fame.” 

“Those 'trappings' as you deign to label them are part and parcel of entire package, darling.” He tilted his head as one might while debating on whether one should squish a bug or let it free. “Some desire the fame and fortune alone at the emotional expense of the famous. Wouldn't see fit to give them the time of day otherwise.” His eyes narrowed. “And those not within the business cannot handle any of it. They find the person in question not worth the bother of it all in the end.”

Aziraphale looked up at him in full now, taking in Lucifer's expressive face as it shifted from taunting to an accusation. Not only was that assertion insane- hadn't Lucifer spent a chunk of his life with Crowley, enough to know what an interesting and wonderful person he was irregardless of the attention he attracted as a celebrity? But also, _any_ relationship had obstacles to work around. Some more than others, but there was no default state common between everyone. 

Aziraphale knew he'd never be some psychological expert on human emotion, but through his years of astrology work, he had _some_ concept of the hidden depths of humankind. 

“Lucifer,” he began, tentative, “Celebrities. Crowley. Even you? You're all still people. You have feelings and hopes just as much of any of us.” He eyed Warlock's approach warily and lowered his voice. “I reserve the right to be annoyed at some aspects of Crowley's career while still being supportive of his personal dreams.” When Lucifer's eyebrows drew together into what appeared to be a genuinely contemplative furrow, Aziraphale felt a sudden swelling of pity. “There must be others in your life beyond Crowley and the children? People who care for who you really are and not for what they think you're _supposed_ to be? Or what you can do _for_ them?”

Before he let Lucifer respond, he turned to Warlock, who hesitantly held two books offering digital downloads in in his arms. “And what've you got here, young Warlock?” He desperately grasped at the redirection to calm his pounding heart. 

Warlock glanced at his father and revealed the books. “You got stuff with audiobooks now,” he said with a soft wonder. 

“This is all thanks to you, you know,” Aziraphale admitted. “You made me realize I was neglecting others out of ignorance. A bit ablest of me.” Somewhat unforgivable of himself, Aziraphale thought privately in recollection of all the accommodations he'd needed over the years. 

His smile was trace but enthusiastic. “I only found these two, and I was sort of hoping to find the whole series. My friend says they're wicked!”

“Ah, the _Redwall_ series by Brian Jacques.” His eyes flicked upward to Lucifer, who was watching silently, likely judging, but Aziraphale could only be himself. He looked back toward Warlock. “Mystery and sword fighting and adventure! All sorts of delightful scrummy food and desserts! And though I haven't listened to them, his books would be an excellent selection for this format.” He arched his brows and leaned inward as if imparting a secret, unable to suppress the pure joy he felt over sharing his love of books with someone. “He wrote his first book for children at a school for the blind, so his descriptions are sensory feast!” He then recalled his audience. It brought forth a self-conscious blush. 

“Yeah, William says someone gets _crushed by a cartwheel_ right in the beginning!” Warlock appeared enthused by this and clutched the books to his chest. 

Aziraphale snuck a glance at the titles and couldn't help himself. “Though it'd be terrible form to sell you _Lord Brocktree_ and _Martin the Warrior_ without you listening to _Redwall_ itself in the very least.” He did feel very sorry as he watched Warlock's face fall momentarily before taking on a slyness.

“There's always a way around the rules,” he said, and for a brief moment, he resembled Crowley in mischievous mode so thoroughly, Aziraphale had to fight down a smile.

“Oh dear,” he settled on, “I'm sorry, it's really quite clear I cannot sell these to you. Unless.” 

Lucifer, Aziraphale could see from the corner of his eye, was now watching him intently. Warlock was grinning, head tilted and ready to play the game. “Unless...” 

“I could be convinced to _lend_ them to you if you promise to take care of them, and.” He turned his attention now to Lucifer, meeting his watchful gaze head on with a challenge in his own eyes. “Might I interest you in ordering a boxed set of the entire print plus downloadable series, or perhaps one of the first eight?” 

Warlock grabbed onto his father's arm, pleading in his voice. “Oh! Father please? Can we?”

Lucifer allowed his gaze to linger before he broke their connection to look at his son. “ _May we_ ,” he corrected. “Of course, sweet. The whole set. No go on and wait for me.” Lucifer turned back to Aziraphale and handed over his card again, one elegant eyebrow cocked and curl of smile on his lips. “You're craftier than you appear on the outside, darling.” 

“As we're standing in a bookshop, I think the old adage 'don't judge a book by it's cover' might be aptly relevant.” Aziraphale busied himself with the order, using it as an excuse to avoid the precise cut of Lucifer's sharp gaze. His stomach continued it's unease, but thankfully his fingers didn't betray his nerves by twitching. 

“Perhaps.” There was an unusual silence in the shop while Aziraphale finished the order and Lucifer collected his book he'd come in for. When Aziraphale finished and handed over the receipts, Lucifer paused in turning to leave. “Only...” he began. 

Aziraphale gripped the countertop in front of him, uncertain. “Er, yes?” he finally prompted when Lucifer's stare had gone on a nerve-wracking chunk of time. 

“Only I might suggest it seems you and I both may need to examine this idiom in light of our potential ongoing acquaintanceship.” 

He tilted his head, confused. His mind flashed to the relationship books he'd been devouring, their advice exceedingly jumbled in his mind. There was no chapter he could recall on what to do when the ex of your potential lover approached you with metaphor. 

Lucifer called out, “Time to go, Warlock, go stand by the doorway, please,” before returning his attention to Aziraphale. “I am _intimately_ aware of Anthony's predilections,” he said softly, barely above a whisper. His eyes darted to where Warlock seemed to be picking at his shoelaces and returned. “You are not his type at all.” He gestured at Aziraphale's entire being, head to toe, and unamusingly did so to indicate his waistline. “You are soft, plump, unknown to the world, and your sartorial taste leaves much to be desired.” 

Aziraphale set his teeth and narrowed his eyes. “Rude and boorish,” he said just as softly, keenly aware of Warlock watching from the doorway. 

Lucifer tipped his chin, a brief nod in acknowledgment. “I suppose that was tactless of me. But darling, you've turned his eye somehow as more than just a tumble. He is remarkably fond of you. It irks and makes me seethe with envy. I don't understand!” His tone took on a whiny quality that surprised Aziraphale and had him stepping back from the brutal honesty. “And to think if I didn't want that book so much, you'd have never met,” he grumbled. “The ninth house is a bitch sometimes.” 

“I-” he had no clue what was meant to follow. This was yet another area not disclosed by the relationship books. And an offhand reference to the ninth house of the zodiac? He shelved that for later examination. “It isn't your prerogative to object unless you have serious concerns over the safety of the children,” he settled on, recalling at least _that_ from his readings and clinging to it as something that made sense. 

The dramatic, put-upon sigh Lucifer produced was so over-the-top Aziraphale could only just stare. 

“Oh well. There's none of that. He'd not let you so much as inhale the same air as Warlock and Adam if he worried so. He says you're good, so you're good.” Lucifer swung his head so his hair flipped aesthetically. “If anything, beloved Anthony is steadfast once he's made a decision. He's quick to fall; that's a Libra for you.” 

“Will you come on, father!” Warlock called from the doorway having clearly grown bored with it all. 

“I'm willing to offer you more consideration, little bookangel,” Lucifer finished with and turned in an excessively flourished spin to head toward the door. 

Aziraphale flushed. Oh good lord. Lucifer _knew_ Crowley's little petname for him! He didn't know how he felt about that. “Lucifer,” Aziraphale blurted and immediately chastised himself. Why couldn't he shut up? 

Lucifer paused without turning. Warlock already had a foot out the door. 

“I forgive your appalling manners,” he said, his fingernails cutting little half circles into his palms in his stress. “It's important we're not at each other's throats.” 

“I shall endeavor to restrict my tongue,” Lucifer muttered without turning. He swept out after his words, leaving Aziraphale standing with one hand pressed to his heart. 

He had no idea how long he remained there, just breathing, until the grandfather clock gracing his shop chimed out startlingly loud. “Dinner!” he gasped, and with part of his heart still residing in his throat, he prepared to meet his friends. 

*

The evening's meal was Newt's choice this week, a fish and chip spot just a shade on the side of being too fancy.

“'Elevated,'” Anathema was grumbling over the craft beer with the odd name she'd ordered. “What sort of chippy is 'elevated'?”

Aziraphale kept his opinions to himself for once. The softshell crab bun topped with slaw, tart ceviche, and yes, pile of chips on the platter before him were amazing if not exactly fish and chips. 

Newt just chuckled. “I wanted to try this place. One of the interns talks it up. And I grew up with fish and chips while you were still a vegetarian at that age!” Both he and Anathema had a more traditional beer-battered fish and chip basket before them, but the chips were cut into unnecessarily fanciful shapes prior to hitting the hot oil. A collection of empty beer bottles with bizarrely decorated labels sat before them. Aziraphale stuck stubbornly with water once he'd been horrified to discover obscure craft beer was the only alcoholic offering. 

The atmosphere truly was nice for a restaurant if not an authentic chippy, Aziraphale thought. Aquas and buttercup yellows dominated the interior, with yellow gingham tablecloths and seaside décor in spite of the shop's location deep within London. Still anxious from his unexpected visitor from earlier that day, he spent an inordinate amount of time blankly gazing at a relaxing photograph of the sea featuring a rocky coast. 

“Earth to Aziraphale,” Anathema said, drawing his attention. 

“Sorry!” He covered for his drifting by stuffing another bite into his mouth. 

“You alright?” She appeared concerned and had even placed her fingers at his elbow. He hadn't even noticed. “You seem out of it.” 

Newt nodded. He finished chewing and added, “This is not the Aziraphale I left this morning.” 

He hadn't intended on unloading his troubles on his friends this evening, but clearly it was seeping through his pores. “I've come back to Earth after a brief flirtation with unreality,” he said in an attempt to sound practical and not revealing of the uncertain thoughts he'd been entertaining since Lucifer's visit.

“So. Spit it out.” The lenses of Anathema's glasses lent an even wider, puppy-dog like quality to her eyes, just begging to be helpful and comforting. She'd known Aziraphale too long. 

Aziraphale stole a chip from her basket rather than answer. “It's silly.” Ridiculous, in fact, he thought. Who was he to burden his friends with what were essentially boy troubles? That thought actually brought on a smile. Silly was right. 

“I told you the whole thing about my speech over the theory Tom Hiddleston was a changeling when he was _in the audience_.” She still blushed over it even though Aziraphale knew that incident had occurred years ago. 

“He was quite the good sport over it, if I recall correctly,” he said, scouring his memory. 

“Kept it to himself, thankfully. We were too new to have that mocked in mainstream media.” 

“And I dropped the whole tray of desserts on myself proposing to Anathema, and you were there for that.” Newt took a moment to lick the salt off his fingertips until Anathema stuffed her napkin at him. “Face it. We're all three a little loony.” 

Aziraphale glanced from Newt to Anathema, both waiting with eager expressions, or in Newt's case, a sedate sort of piqued interest. Anathema looked ready to climb over the table and shake it out of him.

“Oh bother,” he finally gave in. He finished off his crab bun, savoring the last bit before diving into it. “I went against all sanity after my last outing with Crowley. Let slip how much I quite liked him.” He glanced upward at the thick hemp rope hosting scattered shoreline curiosities strung from the ceiling for atmosphere, his chest warming at his memories. “And we've kissed! A rather steamy one, I must say.” He could feel his ears redden and kept his gaze on the ceiling. There were really only so many shells and sand pails one should use for décor, he considered. And was it really safe for a buoy to hang above a dining table? 

“Not seeing a problem yet,” Anathema said. She finished off her beer and flagged down the server for another. 

“And we spoke of how he'd be very busy with travel. And how I'd be content with his word on reaching out for me when he returned. But he's kept up with e-mails in spite of being awfully busy!” When he felt he'd wrangled control over his emotions not to flush every blasted second word, he glanced back toward the table. “And he's invited me to his _home_ with his _children_ soon where he says he'll cook dinner for me!” 

Newt and Anathema were watching him with eyes open wide. 

“Aziraphale,” Anathema began slowly, “It sounds as if you're dating a very well known and admired supermodel. If it wasn't you, I'd say it was all a fabrication; it's that unbelievable. Why on earth are you sad? “ 

He wasn't exactly sad, and he said so once making haste with some of his platter of food. “Dear me, well, I'm growing attached, aren't I? In spite of all the warning signs. Look at me! All atwitter!” 

“Isn't that a good thing?” Newt pointed out. 

“It's just...” he struggled with articulating the grain of doubt still itching at his skin. “It's me!” he finally burst out. 

Both his friends were not impressed. 

“Ah ah, you know-” Anathema started until Aziraphale cut her off. 

“Oh my dears!” he said with apology in his tone. “I don't mean it that way. You needn't worry for me. I'm perfectly satisfied with myself. But I'm nearly thirty-five. I'm a fairly quiet bookseller, and even if I was open about Agnes, it's not exactly a thrilling occupation. How does that compare to the speed and decadence of the international world of fashion and all it's grandeur?” He experienced an unanticipated sense of relief in giving voice to this worry. “I'm bound to be a falling star that's caught his attention momentarily only to be forgotten as soon as I burn out. And goodness,” he added, his words going soft, “I'd rather he not forget about me.” 

“Aziraphale,” Anathema said kindly without continuing. They remained in silence for a few moments, finishing their meal and speaking to the waitstaff who swung by to check on them. Aziraphale gave in and ordered a lager in a glass rather than the bottles Newt and Anathema enjoyed. With the wine selection nonexistent, he craved something to settle his nerves. 

“No.” Anathema spoke right into the silence as if she'd been discussing something within her mind and only now allowing he and Newt in on it. 

“Pardon?” 

She finished chewing the crunchy leftovers of chips in her basket with one finger upraised to indicate he wait. 

“Aziraphale. I think we're going about this all wrong.” 

Curious, he pushed aside everything in front of him other than his newly arrived dark lager and tuned his attention to her, asking, “How's that?” 

“You keep framing your unease over his interest or faithfulness based on his status of fame. A cheater will be unfaithful irregardless of what they do for a living.”

“Mmmhmm,” Newt hummed and nodded. “I see where you're going. Anyone might grow bored of you, not just someone famous.”

Aziraphale flinched and attempted to stuff it down. Newt hadn't been around for Robert and only knew the basics. But he did have a point. He smiled kindly at both Newt, who seemed puzzled, and Anathema, who'd been shooting Newt an exasperated glare. 

“What I'm say-ing,” she dragged out, calming her irritation, “It's been ages since you've had thoughts of a serious relationship. You'd likely have these doubts even if it were that hot barista across town you used to eyeball!” 

“True,” he muttered, slightly embarrassed as he knew of exactly which hot barista she meant. He considered his visitor from earlier. “Lucifer was in the shop today and said something to the effect of people wanting the notoriety and benefits of dating a celebrity without actually wanting the person.”

Anathema nearly spit her beer. Newt already had his napkin held out to her. “Lucifer. DeVil Lucifer. In your shop again?” 

“Er.” In retrospect, Aziraphale thought, he did sound rather casual about the whole thing. What had his life become?

Newt stifled a laugh and shot Aziraphale a very shy smile. “That Morningstar fellow,” he finally said, clearly amused over both Anathema's overreaction and Aziraphale's nonchalance. “We own all fourteen series of _Nine Circles_ , you know.” 

“Yes, Aziraphale,” said Anathema, her eyes bright now, and her expression gently teasing. “What did the wildly famous supermodel and actor you're on a _first name basis with_ say to you as he swanned into your bookstore again?” Her gaze shifted toward flinty. “He hasn't bothered you, has he? All the rags hint he's rumored to be getting back together with your Demon fellow. He's supposedly a 'beloved family man', but that doesn't mean he might be throwing his weight around.” 

Aziraphale looked away, flushing at Anathema's insistence on calling Crowley _his_ Demon. 

“No,” he eventually said. “He wasn't really that way.” He pressed his fingertips into tabletop and leaned forward a bit woozily, feeling some of the alcohol kick in. “It was all very odd. He was there for his book- the cosmetology and astrology one. At first I thought he meant to chase me off from Crowley. And he was rather insulting at a point,” he admitted. “But now I think of it, it's almost as though he was vetting me.” He drifted off and stared absently over Newt's shoulder at a seaside mural painted on the wall. “Isn't that a turn?” he said quietly when he refocused on his friends. 

“Really...” Anathema wondered suspiciously. “Did he sneak close enough to pluck a hair off your head? Scan you with anything? Did he hint at anything extra-terrestrial,” she added, hushed. 

Now it was Aziraphale's turn to choke on his drink. “Anathema!” he hissed. “He's not an alien!” 

“That's what an alien would tell you,” she grumbled. “No human's that...” she waved a hand into the air, “...shiny!” 

“Enough of this, I expect,” Newt cut in and removed Anathema's beer from where it sat half-full in front of her. In response, Anathema swayed in her seat and beeped at Newt's nose with an unsteady finger. 

“You're lucky you're cute.” 

He shook his head, reddening some high on his cheeks. “You're a lightweight. Now you, Aziraphale,” he said after draping an arm over Anathema's shoulders, “I have news for you I've been sitting on about Lucifer DeVil, but it's relevant now you might be running into him more often.”

“Oh good lord,” Aziraphale muttered in a hazy breath. He finished off his drink and pushed the mug aside before folding his hands primly upon the table. “Alright. Go on.” 

“Lucifer DeVil is _notorious_ for making nearly all his decisions off Agnes Nutter's Nice and Accurate Horoscopes,” said Newt, to Aziraphale's growing dismay. “He's spoken about it often. And he's made offers before on talk shows and the like for her-you- to come out of hiding and meet him.” 

Aziraphale could feel his jaw drop. The only noise he could muster was a faint dry clicking in his throat. During the pause, a server slunk in for Aziraphale's empty mug and offered to bring another. He just nodded, feeling stunned. 

“He's probably your most famous fan!” Anathema said from where she'd leaned into Newt's side. Her skin appeared flushed, and she'd regained her previous cheer. “His people have rung up the offices more than once over the years to set up a _secret meeting_ between Agnes and the Morningstar.” 

“Oh fuck!” said Aziraphale, rather loudly for the the customers of an elevated fish and chip spot. 

He ducked his head, instantly embarrassed at all the sudden staring. As soon as the wait staff shot them all an icy glare when delivering his drink, however, all three of them burst into laughter. Aziraphale made short work of the entire mug and only wiped the foam from him mouth when he'd finished. 

“You really need to be more aware of your reach, Aziraphale!” she said, dropping her voice so they wouldn't get kicked out. “He quotes you all the time.”

“Agnes,” Aziraphale said under his breath, “He quotes Agnes.” He snagged the empty beer mug off the table and held it up to the glasses lens of his right eye, peering down into it's depths. Yep. Still empty. He glanced back up at Newt and Anathema who were both watching him with crooked smiles. “And I'm Agnes,” he told them unnecessarily. 

“Hear hear!” Newt said, saluting with his half-full bottle. Anathema applauded. 

“And,” he continued, gesturing with the mug and straightening his back from his tipsy slouch, “I don't want to pretend to be Agnes's assistant. I'm going to keep using her name, but I shall tell everyone one day. But first-” he began, his voice raising at the end. He froze when the irate waiter brought them the check. His narrowed eyes and abrupt slap of the billfold on the tabletop made clear what he thought of their silliness. 

The moment he walked away, Anathema snorted into a giggle behind her hand. Newt pursed his lips in barely restrained grin, and Aziraphale bit at his lower lip and glanced around the restaurant. No one else seemed troubled by their humor. He wondered if any of them suspected they had a millionaire heiress with a publishing empire, her husband, and one of the most prominent astrologists in the world sitting nearby at their yellow gingham covered table. He wondered if any of _them_ had just as fascinating stories or histories. 

“I'm going to tell everyone one day,” he said again, just loud enough for his friends to hear. “And. When I'm ready?” He met Newt's eyes for a moment and paused to catch Anathema's as well, determined. “I'm going to tell Anthony 'the Demon' Crowley first.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale quotes Vincent van Gogh from one of the letters from van Gogh about storms
> 
> the ninth house of the Zodiac is ruled by Jupiter and influenced by Sagittarius. It covers travel, exploring, curiosity, pursuit of knowledge, karma, fate and destiny among other things. 
> 
> Horoscope header from astrologic . com
> 
> The _Redwall_ series was one of my favorites growing up, so more self-indulgence here. 
> 
> Title is a chess defense against the Queen's Gambit maneuver.


	22. Suitable

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm giving up predicting when I can get these chapters back from beta, edited, and put up. Between my wonky internet, a need for absolute silence or just instrumental music when I type, and Open Office being a butt, it took way too long to get this up. And it's a plot chapter, so I had to do a bunch of double checking off my outline! Also, I am trying to buy a house in a market that is going ridiculously fast. We are currently in a bid war with the one that hasn't gone contingent within two days of seeing it. 
> 
> Thank you for reading and sharing your thoughts, and I apologize at being so slow to get back to comments!

*

_capricorn for babies and children - Capricorn children know exactly what they want. Almost no other sign demonstrates such a strong will. Parents who sometimes despair over the stubbornness of their young one should try to focus on the advantages of this characteristic. For a small Capricorn there is almost no goal that cannot be reached, and no obstacle that can't be overcome. Small Capricorns already exhibit a patience and diligence that some adults could take as an example. Unfortunately, children of this sign often set overly ambitious goals. However, through great effort they usually achieve what they want. And what would the world be without the famous “Reach for the stars"?_

*

_Delirium_ was loud and crushed with bodies and pounded at Crowley's head, but it featured a world record beer list so of course, that's where his photoshoot team chose for this first evening in Brussels. 

“Here.” Michael slapped a beer with unusual artwork down in front of him. The dull thud of the bottle hitting the table melded into the surrounding cacophony. “Don't say I never give you anything.” 

Crowley shook himself from his exhausted stupor. “You cleared this with Gabriel?” he wondered but took the offered bottle anyhow. The condensation felt slick and damp beneath his hands. 

Michael only glared at him for the audacity to even question her methods. 

“Hey, just checking,” he said, palm held outward in defense. Michael wasn't the only one of the team disgruntled. Beatrice had dropped their head onto the table a while ago so the wire of the notebook before them pressed into their cheek. Hastur nearly built a surrounding wall of bottle and glassware, and Madame Tracy sipped daintily at a fruity appearing thing sporting far too many decorations. Otherwise, she remained rather quiet. 

Crowley was fine with the selection of Brussels for this next calendar shoot. While islands and tropics had been entertaining for the prior few years, he had looked forward to what the team would come up with in a beautiful city where temps topped around 10 C in early March.

His last calendar might as well have been a swimsuit focus. But again, in spite of the Grand Place of Brussels and the photogenic scenery of the gardens and architecture of the Palais Royal, rather than ideas spun forward over the last few months by his team, Gabriel seemed determined to have him stripped all but naked in every shot. Gabriel clashed with the photographer's directions, a gentleman highly recommended by local based IMM Bruxelles Modeling Agency. He stuck his nose into the wardrobe selections chosen by the style team in office and facilitated by Beez on site. He even attempted unsuccessfully to boss Madame Tracy around on her cosmetic choices, an effort she ignored.

Instead of the variety on offer in such a historical city, they'd spent most of today's day of shooting in their luxury hotel suite producing what Crowley considered Gabriel's personal wank fodder. “I want to do something else,” he mumbled as he nursed the beer. 

“Whaddua grumblin' about, ye daft prick?” Hastur belched and peered at Crowley through hazy eyes. 

Michael watched him warily while the others seemed to stare into the crowd. During a break earlier that afternoon, Crowley had slipped back into his own clothes and had wandered the Grand Place, taking in the sights. Why weren't they out here? How could they pass up such a backdrop? He _knew_ he could make any outfit selection suitable for the surroundings attractive and interesting. His first calendar shoot, scrupulously hovered over by Lucifer, included an interesting variety, something for all his fans and more importantly, fun to shoot. Gabriel seemed keen on restricting his image to what amounted to softcore porn stillshots. It was in Crowley's wheelhouse, but he could do so much more! 

Fuck that. 

“I want to change the rest of the shoot,” he said, eyes narrowed as he scanned over his team's reactions. “I wanna get a few outside. Look at what we have at our fingertips here! The work's done for us! I chatted with the photog earlier today over it; he's local, he's got experience.” His fingers gripped the bottle too tightly. He made an effort to loosen them. 

And should he voice this? He wondered with some hunger, his thoughts skirting back to a well rehearsed fantasy he'd indulged in multiple times in the last few weeks. “And I want one image in a library. Subtle. Erotic. Don't care what month we place it, but July might be nice,” he added with a casualness and hope the stuffy heat indoors would disguise the sudden rush of warmth to his face. 

“You want to shift the whole shoot _right in the middle_ ,” Michael said neutrally, assessing with a cool gaze. “With everything blocked out and reserved for tomorrow and Thursday already, wardrobe already selected and transported here?” She folded her arms atop the table and watched him with an inscrutable expression. 

“Yeah,” he said, growing excited. And perhaps it was the unexpected allowance of alcohol, perhaps it was a sliver of treasured daydream on the flight over of flipping through a proof of his calendar with Aziraphale, of enjoying Aziraphale's eyes shine with wicked interest or his soft lips parting at the surprise of an nontraditional photographic setting for the Demon. “It's my goddamn calendar,” he snarled lightly, aware it wasn't really meant for the group at the table. And while it _really_ was Celestial Bodies Modeling Agency's calendar, it still featured him exclusively. He should have some say in the damn thing. 

“Whut the everfecking fuckity fuck, you dickhead?” Hastur grumbled. He slumped back into his seat and slugged his beer. “Go on. Crawl up Gabriel's arse like a bedbug and piss 'im off. Don't mean much to me. I kin handle anything.” 

Nearly trembling on adrenaline now, Crowley couldn't keep to his seat. He jumped up and propped one foot upon the chair as if ready to step up onto it. “Michael. Is Gabriel still around? Could you get him over here?” His stomach swirled with acid and beer in anticipation of bringing this up to his manager. “I'm gonna grab some kind of snack from the bar.” 

Michael didn't look up and instead tapped into her mobile. “He's not going to like this,” she warned, but a note of interest laced her words. She was curious in spite of herself. Almost approving, Crowley thought, though he might have imagined it. 

“Crowley,” Beatrice said abruptly as he turned. He paused and looked over his shoulder. They'd loosened their tie so it hung askew, but their eyes shown bright in the dimmed bar lighting. “I can pull it together,” they said, confident. They straightened in the chair and appeared determined. “Get him to agree to it, and I'll have everything together before tomorrow afternoon. You want architecture? A library? Whatever. I'll get it. I'm far more than a luggage mule.” 

“I'll help, dearie,” Tracy pipped up from her corner of their table. “I'm a dab hand at wardrobe though it's not been my focus. I have connections everywhere. Don't you worry, love,” she added, meeting Crowley's eyes. “We'll have you done up handsome for your calendar.” She closed her eyes and tipped her chin into the air. “It's as though Mr. Celestial has forgotten sometimes less nudity can be more provocative.” 

“What's this?” Gabriel said loud and brash upon arriving at their table. He laughed something deep and forced in his chest. “One little beer and you've gotten all big in the head is it? I don't think so.” Crowley kissed his musings of soft pretzel bites away and returned to sprawl in his chair. 

“It's _boring_ ,” Crowley said as Gabriel made himself comfortable on the only free seat available. What's tomorrow, oh, the atrium of the hotel? The hotel's conservatory? Why did we book this in Brussels if we weren't going to use the city?”

“I was listening to your concerns!” Gabriel said, and he actually did sound aggrieved. “You wanted one of your summer months in a hothouse like in Paris! I booked a hotel with a whole glassed in thing full of plants and fountains!” 

“And we spent nearly all day in the suite and an hour in the atrium,” Crowley pushed onward, not particularly in the mood to acknowledge Gabriel's small point.

“Anthony,” Gabriel coaxed. He was still fully buttoned up in his more professional Tom Ford suit while the rest of their group had opted for casual. “You know your demo. This is what they want. A little seedy, a lot sultry.” He met the eyes of everyone at the table. “You saw the figures. They can't have you for real, so they get the next best thing every month of the year. Hang it on the wall next to their bed.” 

Hastur continued to appear bored, while Tracy and Beatrice, both of whom hadn't been at most the planning meetings for this shoot, appeared puzzled. 

“Michael?” Gabriel said and snapped his fingers in the air near her face, expectant. “Read aloud the data we discussed. Millions of hits,” he added. 

She side-eyed him coldly but flipped open her tablet. After a few movements, she read aloud in a rather stony tone, “ 'Most frequently used search terms for Anthony 'the Demon' Crowley: Anthony Crowley naked, Anthony Crowley sex tape, Anthony Crowley _Seductive_ cologne ad, Anthony Crowley 2018 July calendar spread, Anthony Crowley and Lucifer DeVil caught on beach-”

“Okay, okay, my fans want to perv on me, shut up, we get it,” Crowley managed. He experienced an odd jumble of pride and shame. 

“See!” Gabriel folded his hands on the table, expression smug. “I know my business. Don't you worry your pretty little head about what they want.” His tone went to what Crowley thought was meant to be soothing. “You just flash your best for the camera and let me take care of the difficult parts for you.” 

“I still want a few shots in the city,” he insisted even though some of the wind had withdrawn from his sails. “And if they're good, I want a few of them to be part of the calendar. Half,” he pushed. 

“Crowley, Crowley, Crowley.” Gabriel laughed. Crowley watched him scan everyone at the table with a corporate polished benignness. “Even if I did indulge your little flight of fancy,” he continued, reaching across the table to encircle Crowley's wrist with tight fingers, “It takes weeks of planning to put together a shoot, especially on location. I know you don't understand how complicated this all is, and you don't have to!” It was Gabriel's attempt at being reassuring, Crowley was sickened to realize.

He thought of the delicate and interesting architecture he'd admired earlier. Of well known tourist sites and secret treasures known to locals the photographer expounded upon. The idle musing he had of designing a shot to appeal not to his usual mass demographics, but for an audience of one fascinating little book seller. He drew both legs up onto the chair in a modified squat, pulled his wrist away from Gabriel, and folded his arms around his knees, his eyes darting around the table at his gathered colleagues. Hastur appeared unconcerned but watchful, while Tracy appeared ready to pounce. Michael and Beatrice both studied him with intent gazes. He needed to push for this. Break his mold. 

“Give me Thursday,” he wheedled. “The photographer's got suggestions he's already familiar with, so he wouldn't need to scout.” Crowley tipped his chin at Tracy, Beatrice, and Hastur. “They'll all make it work. Beatrice assures me they'll have it all in hand, and I trust them.” When he glanced their way, Beatrice had looked downward for a moment with the faintest glow to their cheeks. 

Gabriel sighed heavily, but before he could say anything, Michael slid her tablet to him. 

“Itinerary could be adjusted for Thursday,” she said without much emotion in her voice. “Everything for tomorrow could continue as planned. If the team agreed on putting a longer day in, we could push some of Thursday's work onto Wednesday and allow Crowley to do as he pleased.” Her eyes slid over to meet Crowley's briefly. “Perhaps he has a point regarding diversity.”

“Well,” Gabriel began. He tapped at the tablet a few times. He at least appeared be considering the entire proposal. “She's a gopher,” he said with a casual gesture toward Beatrice. “And you want to trust her inexperience with an entire day's production?” 

Beatrice flattened both their palms on the table and glared at Gabriel. 

“ _They_ ,” Crowley pushed, a little peeved, “have my full confidence in pulling this off. And come on, Gabriel,” he scolded, “You've been told over and over the correct blessed pronouns.” He released the deathgrip he had on his knees and dropped his feet below the table. It was _satisfying_ to call Gabriel out in defense of someone else. If only he could do so for himself just as avidly.

“I don't need you white-knighting for me, Demon,” Beatrice grumbled, though they did offer the slightest of smiles toward Crowley. 

Tracy took the stilted moment to take a rather flourished sip from her drink and leaned into the table. With a kind expression but shrewd eyes, she said, “Gabriel, what's it going to hurt?” She took another measured sip of her drink, seeming to wait until she had the entire table's attention. “I seem to recall how _ferociously_ you were against the Morningstar's shift in focus way back when he and Lilith were wed and little Warlock was a tiny thing! I recall how you said it wasn't what the universe wanted, but you were soooo very wrong. Dismal really, one would think you'd be able to interpret your horoscope just as well as Lucifer with all your experience.” Her smile was fond and yet so sharp. 

Crowley adored her. He enjoyed the sour look on Gabriel's face even more. 

“And, oh. Look.” Michael tapped at her tablet again, one eyebrow arched. “Just yesterday, Agnes mentioned water signs should focus on their 10th house this week because it was time for drastic shifts in trajectory.”

Beatrice shot her a puzzled, disgusted look and Michael clarified, “Tenth house is career oriented. Water signs are Cancer, Scorpio like Gabriel here, and Pisces.” 

“Did she,” Gabriel said slowly, a thoughtful tilt to his head. 

Crowley's gaze wouldn't settle and darted around the table. He caught Beez rolling their eyes at Michael's explanation and shared a brief smile with them. 

“Listen all ye arseholes,” Hastur mumbled, very far from sober now, “Just poin' me in the ri' direction and I'll have this ginger flash bashtard ready.” He slammed his bottle down in front of him to a reverberating clunk as punctuation. 

“You're all willing to indulge in this whimsy? Fine,” Gabriel snapped. He did not appear pleased, but Crowley noticed how he continued to glance down at Michael's tablet with the page featuring Agnes Nutter's March theorizing for the Angular, Succedent and Cadent houses. 

Crowley couldn't help his relieved grin. It felt like a step forward, a small but effective pushback. And he was absolutely confident it would improve the final photo selection. 

“This is a favor, Crowley,” Gabriel said pointedly. “I expect favors to be repaid.” 

“Sure, whatever.” Crowley waved a flippant hand as he stumbled to his feet, his mind already shuffling through possibilities he and the photographer had bantered over earlier that day. Perhaps a silk black button up artfully draped, worn open, tight denim, no... he wouldn't lounge rumpled and sleepy in denim if he were relaxing their private library, would he? Hair down, no. Wait. Collarbones needed to be exposed with how often Crowley'd caught Aziraphale's gaze settling there. Perhaps he could arrange a thick hardback novel in a strategic fashion, fingers poised delicately, yessss, -he's been reading, and he hears his bookangel slipping into the room, curious. And Crowley's eyes are half-lidded as he meets Aziraphale's with surprise at being caught out, his smile is an alluring blend of predatory and pleased- 

His stomach chose that moment to complain, jerking his attention back into _Delirium_. Shit. He was standing in a noisy, sweltering bar in mid Brussels near his team and his pervy manager, worked up and popping a stiffy thanks to his vivid imagination. He covertly pressed down at his groin to get himself under control. “I'm famished. Be back.” 

“No carbs, you'll bloat!” Gabriel shot after him. 

“Hey, brin' back a lil sump' for us,” Hastur shouted after him. “Ya owe it!” 

His success boosted his confidence, leaving him with a heady, electric feeling of power. He wove a serpentine path through customers and curled his lip into a knowing smirk when the deliberate sway of his hips and casual brush of his fingertips to his unbuttoned neckline drew lingering stares and lustful, appreciative smiles from some in the crowd. He thought back on Aziraphale's tentative _why can't you be sexy_ and _smart_ question from what felt like eons ago. More than ever, he was beginning to realize Gabriel was wrong. Even surrounded by people like Lucifer who _had_ successfully shifted trajectories and of learning of others who'd done so, for far too long, he'd taken Gabriel's words to heart. 

I'll get 'em out of my head even if I need to burn him out, he thought, determined. He apparently projected this as some sort of aura because a space shuffled clear for him to the counter without effort. He still could feel the nearly palpable heat of yearning gazes at his back as he arched over the countertop and caught the employee's attention. 

“Your biggest lot of pretzel bites,” he ordered in English with a wink and sly grin. 

“That's five hundred pieces you know,” the man said with some disbelief. 

“Uh.” Perhaps he might need to reel back a bit of his swagger. “More like fifty or so?” he corrected a tad more sheepishly. 

The employee's answering nod was kind as he slid a plastic number across the counter to him. “Don't worry, easy mistake.” 

Crowley only winked again, cheekily this time, and continued, undaunted, toward the pick-up area. His victorious attitude continued while he drifted in consideration of which locations he'd want the most. Was this how people felt all the time when they achieved a goal they wanted rather desperately? The library or something similar was a definite; he'd coddled his fantasy of Aziraphale's _appreciation_ too long to drop it. He wanted something out on the Grand Place, and wasn't there an observatory just outside of town he'd noticed a brochure for? He'd need some back ups in case the weather didn't agree, no need for Gabriel to use it as an excuse... 

The weight of a hand landing on his shoulder drew him from his thoughts. 

“Anthony Crowley?” he barely heard over the jumbled crowd of voices, and he turned. 

“Elias!” he recalled, picking through his memory and flushing suddenly at the sudden recollection of a very steamy and eager few weeks originating in Amsterdam and parting amicably from Elias's home in rural Germany. It was not long after he'd split from Lucifer, and newly single, a fit bassit for a rock band was exactly the carefree fling he'd needed at the time. 

“What brings you to our corner of the globe?” Elias asked. He seemed unchanged by time, still with long, shaggy hair and perhaps an additional tattoo looping his slender neck. 

Crowley kept one ear open for his number and returned the brief hug. “Calendar shoot,” he said. Elias looked good for himself, Crowley was pleased to note, though he never did wind up listening to his band's music. It was never a thing that would go anywhere, but the memories were pleasant. 

“Niiiice,” Elias drawled somewhat salaciously. Crowley had to duck his head in spite of knowing his reputation in print. 

“Anywhere in the city you might suggest? I'd like to bring something a little sophisticated to this next one!”

“Gotchya. Hmmmm. If you're not opposed to traveling, Antwerp's Koninklijk Museum voor Schone Kunsten might do.”

“Thanks,” he said, noting it in his mind. He registered Elias's gaze dipping downward over the length of his body in a lewd sweep and realized only at the last moment what Elias wanted. The hand sliding into his rear pocket to cup at his backside confirmed it. 

“So, uh, will you have any time to hang out while you're here?” The hand grew increasingly familiar and his warm breath brushed at Crowley's ear. 

He needed to nix this immediately, especially before mobile cameras picked it up. “I'm in a committed thing these days,” he explained, keeping it light so Elias wouldn't think the rejection was personal. “Getting pretty serious.”

The hand squeezed once and moved away. “Ahhhh. It's a pity for me, but good for you,” he murmured. “I think we all knew you'd go back to him in the end,” he added with a fond smile. “And who'd blame you? I wouldn't.” 

“That's not-” Crowley began, heating at the implication, but before he could continue, his number was called out. “That's me,” he finished instead, and added, “Thanks for the tip, take care!” before pushing through the crowd to pick up his order. If he wanted to keep Aziraphale out of the public eye but turn away offers, would they all just assume he was back with Lucifer? The gossip rags seemed to be pushing for it, he knew. He snagged his basket and made for his table, his concerns churning. 

Throwing Aziraphale to the wolves seemed to be a sure way to scare him back into his bookshop with the shades drawn. But not acknowledging his existence to the public eventually would catch up. There'd be questions. Assumptions. The sad fact of it was at some point, he'd become so tantalizing to the public his own sex life garnered more general interest than his current projects. Would Aziraphale grow weary of it all if he was constantly bombarded with rumors of the swath of men Crowley was supposedly fucking his way through? He swallowed down his apprehension, missing his previous confidence. Would Aziraphale _believe them_ and assume he'd been unfaithful?

He arrived to a table turned into an impromptu albeit somewhat drunken brainstorming session. Gabriel appeared settled in, head abutted to Michael's as they leaned over a tablet. Beatrice had flipped open their spiral notebook and was actively scribbling notes from their mobile. 

“A bit cloudy, no' so mush H2O shit inna air to fuck up his hair,” Hastur was saying to Tracy while wiggling a mobile phone and listing slowly to the side. Crowley slid into his seat and deposited his offering to the table after choosing several buttery pieces from the top. He ignored the disapproving glare from Gabriel. 

“Oh, that's nothing,” Tracy waved off. She met Crowley's eyes as he sprawled comfortably. “Weather will be perfect,” she said. “Not a thing to worry about for an outside shoot.” 

“Good.” 

“Wann't sure you'd be back,” Hastur growled with a head-jerk toward the snackbar while he scooped a handful of pretzel bites. “Gotta tendanshy to slip off on us with the firs' bloke who humps your leg like a dog. And _we're_ the ones stuck huntin' your skinny arse down come morn!” 

“Sorry, champ, got no time to dip your wick if you want this to work unless you're in it for a quick dick n' ditch,” Beatrice said bluntly as they drummed the back of their pen against the notebook without looking up. 

“Beeez!” he nearly shrieked, slightly scandalized. He glanced over at Michael, who only smirked at him and Gabriel, who's stare was uncomfortably heated. “Shut it,” Crowley mumbled as he went red and further slunk into his chair. So perhaps he'd garnered a reputation on-location, but that didn't mean he always- okay perhaps he'd been _slightly_ guilty in the past... but he didn't need this rubbish getting around to Aziraphale as if he were still pulling random hook-ups. “I've got a good thing going right now,” he settled on. Vague but hopefully enough to settle this.

Michael's smirk dropped from her lips. 

“ _Not_ with Lucifer,” he clarified, to the table, but mostly to her because the guilt gnawing at his chest at her expression wouldn't release. He wasn't completely obtuse to Michael's complicated feelings over Lucifer, and her sudden switch to intense disinterest only underscored his suspicions. 

“Anthony,” Gabriel cut in, “I have reservations over some of your suggestions.” He cringed in over exaggeration as if biting into something sour. “A library? For _your_ fan base? Not really in-line for our end-goals here, is it? Is this 'good thing' you've been seeing putting terrible ideas like this into your head?”

“No,” Crowley bit out. He pressed his hand flat to the table so as not to throw the entire basket of pretzels at him. It backfired when Gabriel reached to stroke his fingers until Crowley snatched his hand back.

“Sunshine, I know you've been lonely. You need to allow Michael or I to vet these men for you so they don't lead your career into a downfall.” His words grew bizarrely soft, like Gabriel was attempting to comfort him. “Keep it within agency for a while,” he added soothingly, “someone more _suitable_ for your image. Disciplined.” 

Like Crowley needed some relationship minder. Like Crowley was _so stupid,_ clearly he'd allowed some random to lead him around by his cock like the brainless slut he was in Gabriel's mind. 

Crowley glanced around the table while swallowing back the mouthful of acid creeping upward. Beez had stepped away to walk briskly toward the exit, their mobile to one ear and their hand pressed to the other in an attempt to block out sound. Hastur's head was slumped to the table, and Madame Tracy's eyes were moving between he and Gabriel with pursed lips and concerned expression. 

“Oh Crowley!” Michael interrupted the tension, her voice sticky sweet although her expression remained calculating. Crowley reared back from the table and shot her a wary glare. “I've already gotten an e-mail back from someone I contacted at the Royal Observatory of Belgium and CC'd Beatrice in. He's willing to meet with us and discuss a brief on-location shoot.” 

Crowley perked up in his seat. Gabriel didn't speak and only observed her with a pinched appearance to his face. 

“I thought Crowley, you and Lucifer are awfully fond of the stars in your own ways, and _you_ Gabriel, although you loathe to admit it,” she said nonchalantly while spinning her tablet around for Crowley to see. “And look, there's even a library on the campus grounds. That's convenient, isn't it?” 

“Er. Yeah.” He thought he mumbled aloud, but he was already past it and flicking through the website, his hopes rising. “One of the original eighteen observatories to participate in the Carte du Ciel project in the early 20th century,” he said in a hushed breath. “The actual astrograph built for astrophotography is still around and the glass plates n stuff are archived there.” He glanced at it once more, thinking of what he could do here before coming back to himself. When he looked up, Gabriel appeared disgruntled while Tracy gazed at him with a soft, maternal smile. Hastur cracked an eye and grunted an assent. His cobbled-together team on his side, he thought, disgustingly affectionate. 

“And Gabriel,” Michael added, still oddly saccharine, “I think fans of the Demon would adore to see him among the stars, elegantly dressed, perhaps a button or two slipped open just so. Why I'm sure even Uriel Asante or one of Crowley's usual designers would be willing to overnight a selection for the opportunity to feature in the Demon's future calendar. Everything's falling together divinely.” A bare flicker of curl graced her lips. “So really, between Beatrice and I and Tracy and Hastur's work, only a complete and _absolutely moronic fool_ would object. Don't you think?” She ended by popping one of the remaining pretzel bites into her mouth. 

Even the sour, defeated expression on Gabriel's face couldn't dampen the optimism glowing in Crowley's chest. 

*

Two very busy days followed, leaving Friday for travel and reconnection with Warlock and Adam. 

“You were quite the feisty one on this shoot I hear, love,” Lucifer said with admiration from the sitting room doorway. Crowley all but collapsed in the overstuffed leather chair he'd once practically lived in years ago when he was still at the Chelsea house. Adam had climbed into his arms the moment Crowley'd arrived and hadn't released him. 

“A little Archangel told you I suppose?” Crowley said, but he knew he likely appeared far too pleased with himself. He shifted Adam on his lap and tickled his stomach until he became a giggly ball of elbows and knees. “And how 'bout you, Stardust, did you behave for your father this time? I heard you were coloring on the walls?” 

Adam continued to laugh, squealing out, “No more walls, daddy! Books only!” He wriggled out of Crowley's arms just as Warlock entered the room to perch on the arm of the chair. “I get one!” Adam said and bounded down the hallway. 

“Oh, it was awful,” Lucifer grouched. He took a seat at the center of the sofa perpendicular to Crowley and spread his long arms along the back so it strained at his fitted shirt. “Well,” he hesitated, glancing down the hallway where Adam had disappeared, “I didn't _say_ it was awful, of course, far be it for me to stifle his vast creativity, but we needed a discussion on proper venues to explore said creativity.” 

“What father means,” Warlock began dryly, “is we spent a buttload of money on art stuff and coloring books and paper.”

“Ah ha.” Crowley relaxed into the chair and elbowed Warlock in a teasing greeting. “And how about you? Anything interesting? Didn't text me at all this week,” he added. 

“Grounded from it for no reason,” Warlock mumbled. 

“On some ridiculous anime game at three in the morning,” Lucifer corrected. 

Adam chose that moment to return, skipping back into the room with armfuls of coloring books and a bin of crayons. He dropped everything on the elegantly sculpted wood coffee table and upended the container.

“Not in... here,” Lucifer began and trailed off before glancing at Crowley with a wry expression. “I expect you'll take some of this back to your place?” he suggested. 

Crowley chest seemed to swell with delighted butterflies at the sight of Adam's carefree coloring with just the slightest bit of tongue sticking out in concentration. He glanced over at Lucifer with conflicting fond and wary emotions. This all was new ground to navigate, co-parenting with firm boundaries engaged while chunks of the world were still cheering them on into reconciling. He watched as Lucifer slid from the sofa to his knees near the table to join Adam. 

“I know you're leaving for Milan Sunday,” Crowley said while plucking a crayon from the table to peel the paper off. “ So yeah, I better.” 

“Father and I also went to pick up his book from A. Z. Fell's, and he ordered me a big set of audiobooks!” Warlock only seemed to want to share something more cheerful than his grounding, but Crowley immediately turned to shoot a concerned look at Lucifer. The pleasant butterflies he'd been experiencing sharply pivoted into anxious flutters. 

“You, uh.” He paused and licked his lips, biting down onto the lower one as he chose his words. “You were at Aziraphale's?” Lucifer wouldn't meet his eyes and pressed the wax of the crayon to a drawing of a teddy bear so ferociously it snapped. Crowley narrowed his eyes in suspicion. “You weren't a bother to him, were you?” he warned. He found himself tensing up and scooting to the edge of the chair, one hand threading into his hair to grip at it in frustration. “Were you, Luce?” 

“Warlock,” Lucifer said, continuing his avoidance, “please take your brother to his room and get ready to go to your Papa's penthouse.” 

Warlock groaned but jumped to his feet. “You always make me leave when you 'talk',” he complained, quirking his fingers into air quotes around the word. “Come'on, silly goose,” he mumbled and dragged Adam to his feet. 

“Hey! I no a goose!” Adam still followed his brother out of the room, his chubby hand gripping several crayons. 

Fuck. Now Crowley glared at Lucifer, heavily enough Lucifer finally met his eyes. “You said something to him, didn't you?” 

“I _did_ need to pick up my book,” Lucifer reasoned. “And in light of your new... interest, he needed someone to investigate him for suitability.” 

“Suita- What the fuck?”

Lucifer remained on his knees and folded his hands together with his elbows propped on the coffee table, peering upwards at Crowley not unlike a supplicant pleading his God for absolution. “It was just a little light joshing, tame even.” He had the audacity to bat his eyes coquettishly. 

Crowley rose to his feet in a flash and paced the sitting room with fingers curled into fists. Had he just been feeling partial toward the bastard? He snarled a mishmash of insensible syllables, sputtering. And oh god, Aziraphale. He paused and spun to face Lucifer. “Why? You said it'd be fine for the boys to be around him. You said you'd stay out of the way-”

“Oh spare me your drama, Anthony love.” He climbed to his feet and crossed his arms over his chest after waving a flippant hand toward Crowley. “He's a grown man. Didn't tuck his fluffy little head away and hide if that's what you're fussed about. He snarled right back at me,” he added petulantly. 

Crowley nearly choked on his words again, tongue a mess, and he stomped across the room to poke Lucifer in the chest. “I'm not _worried._ I'm-” he couldn't continue because the truth was he did worry. One or two pebbles might not bury a person, but a constant pelleting might make Aziraphale decide Crowley wasn't worth the stress. For example, the irritating pebble of a beloved childhood icon and internationally famous supermodel who might be found anywhere Aziraphale turned happy to peck him apart bit by bit. 

Lucifer slowly unfolded his arms as if he would startle Crowley by moving fast. He wrapped one hand around Crowley's wrist gently. The fact Lucifer was treating Crowley if he were the one in the wrong and in need of special handling made Crowley nearly bite off the tip of his own tongue. 

“Lucifer,” Crowley all but growled. From the corner of his eye, he noticed Warlock and Adam re-enter the room, both with wide eyes. 

“Tut tut, love, shhhhhhh,” Lucifer soothed and rubbed circles with his thumb into the pulse point at Crowley's wrist. “Your beloved paramour stood his own and then some. He very well may be up to the sort of scrutiny our celebrity elicits. I admit he had... points,” he added after a long pause and a glance at the ceiling. 

Crowley twisted his arm away. “You don't need to check him for suitability. It's not up to you to test him!” 

“Father,” Warlock said in a quiet voice, and both Crowley and Lucifer froze. 

“Yes, sweetling?” Lucifer murmured without glancing away from Crowley. 

“Pop's boyfriend is coming over for supper tomorrow even if you don't really want him to.” When Crowley turned to look at his son, Warlock's chin was tipped upward in stubbornness. “You said it was okay. Were you lying?” His eyes though, they held a rarely seen glimmer of disappointment. For someone as easy-going as Warlock tended, it was enough to make Lucifer's face crumple. 

“Ah.” The word was merely a breath from Lucifer's lips, followed by a soft, “I've behaved poorly then, haven't I?” 

“You were kinda mean 'n stuff to him at the shop. It's like you forget I got ears an' eyes n' stuff.” He ducked his head so his fringe fell across his forehead and began gathering the crayons Adam was already attempting to pack back up. 

Crowley, whose brain had hyper-focused on the word 'boyfriend' snapped attention back to Lucifer.

Lucifer appeared _devastated._ His usually bright eyes were glassy, and his face was drained of it's radiant pallor. “My son thinks I'm mean,” he whispered. He gazed at Crowley with a needy plead for comfort.

For once, Crowley found himself able to resist giving in. Whether he was still riding the high of standing up to Gabriel in Brussels or that he'd just moved a healthy step away from their codependency, he only felt pity rather than an urge to fix everything and draw Lucifer into his arms to reassure him. He hooked his thumbs into the scant pocket space his tight jeans offered and looked at Lucifer very seriously. 

“Might, uh, might want to think about that then, yeah?” he wound up saying before breaking their connected stare. 

“Yeah,” Crowley heard Lucifer say once he'd turned away. He directed the boys to both give hugs to their father since they wouldn't see him for the next week and guided them toward the doorway. When he glanced back over his shoulder, Lucifer was standing mid-room, subdued and staring into space, utterly alone. Crowley turned away and walked toward his highly anticipated future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My beta reader urges me to add that she and therefore others may be bothered by how often characters seem to think they have the right to just grab at Crowley's wrist/parts of his body. And while she does know how this story goes, she has advised me to inform others that this does get dealt with in case it makes anyone uncomfortable. There is definitely a dichotomy going on here that's been building up on how others manhandle Crowley and feel they can just do that because of what he does for a living, while Aziraphale is more of seeking permission. 
> 
> Horoscope for Adam/Capricorn from momstrology .com
> 
> Delirium is an actual bar with a world record beer list, but I have no clue if the sell pretzels. 
> 
> Observatory information straight from it's website
> 
> Gabriel snapping his fingers in Michael's face to make her do his bidding quickly is a thing that actually happened to me at a previous job years ago. I still want to skewer that boss.


	23. Kiss of Palms I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So history of this chapter and of fic- first, my open office crashed and ate the whole file, but luckily, there have been all sorts of versions flying back and forth since February between myself and my beta. We unearthed one, but it needed to be re-edited for this chapter. Then- I hit my cap because apparently COVID19 is boring now and data caps are back even though we had people with zoom meetings and online schooling here for July. I had to wait until the new month rolled over. 
> 
> This was such a big chapter, I kept timing out on uploading it. (not A03s fault). So I've split it for posting purposes. Half is up today, and after I check my notes on who's next for a horoscope and nitpick HTML and stupid errors, I'll load the other half up in the next day or two. If it feels unfinished, that's why. Also, I need to drive an hour to Costco for a big shopping trip, otherwise I would get it all up today.

Kiss of Palms I

_Pisces- If you've been trying to find a balance between your personal goals and your family responsibilities, things could come into alignment in a surprising way. It looks like someone you thought for sure would never budge in their position is thinking about things in a different way. Something you said to them a while ago has been bouncing around in their head for a while, and it has finally helped them see things from your perspective._

*

The long-grain rice sat atop the stove simmering. The roasting chicken, dry rubbed with blended spices, had made it into the oven on time. 

“Adam! Time to get those off the table, Stardust,” Crowley said as he brushed past for the third time between the refrigerator and his Wolf oven. Loose strands of hair escaping from his bun stuck wet to his temple while he shelled a boiled egg over the kitchen compost bin. The mused-upon haircut seemed more likely day by day. 

Rather than move the Lego structure from it's prominent space on the dining table, Adam clicked another brick onto the top of his creation. “I show him!” 

Okay. Deal with that later. Was that recipe twenty minutes? Had he put on the rice too early, he wondered, peering at the bag again. “Warlock, are your rooms clean?” 

“Yeah, Pop.” He huffed and rolled his eyes with great exaggeration. “You only asked me like forty-two times.” 

“Right.” Crowley abandoned the egg to sip at the Bordeaux he'd poured earlier to settle his nerves. The last two weeks had been frantic but exciting. Yesterday'd brought about more emotions than he was prepared to deal with. This morning and afternoon had been frantic in another way.

“Oi! Pop! Boiling over!” 

Crowley scrambled across the kitchen to turn the heat down. In spite of his luxuriously appointed kitchen and high quality cookware, Crowley rarely made more than simple meals or assembled and heated the prepared meals his nutritionist selected for him several days a week. But he'd witnessed Aziraphale's nearly obscene appreciation for well prepared food. He secretly harbored thoughts of being the one to provide that experience for him with his own hands. Organic chicken nuggets with a side of chips weren't going to cut it. 

He eyed an apron stuffed in an unused corner and presented as a humorous gift in light of his lack of talent at cooking and considered it for the first time. There was already a splatter of melted herb butter on the hem of his black T-shirt. Well. He'd change anyhow before Aziraphale got here. Instead, he paced the kitchen barefoot and nearly slid on a fallen shred of wrapping from a stick of butter. He had put butter beneath the skin of the chicken as the recipe indicated, right? He opened the oven to check just in case. 

Adam found his flailing entertaining and applauded. 

“Why are you so nervous, you weirdo?” Warlock had one earbud dangling and the other in place while he set plate ware on the table. When Crowley ducked his head back out from the oven, he noticed as his son seemed to barely be holding back laughter. 

“I'm not,” Crowley lied. He'd even confirmed Aziraphale would be there and explained the process on how to enter his highly restricted building and the code for his keyed lift. Twice. The second time, Aziraphale went into a delightful ten minute rant regarding overzealous security. Not a word about Lucifer's visit. 

“You're acting like he's gonna take one look at his rice and turn around 'n leave!”

“You never know. He has _standards_.” He lifted the lid on the rice- ah crap, it said on the bag not to do that, didn't it? He did need to add the spices soon though, he remembered that at least. “And if your Father keeps sticking his nose in...” Crowley trailed off when he noticed browning around the edges of the pot. 

“Father thinks he's helping.” Warlock thumped his forehead on the table in a display of what he thought of that. “Like at school, when he was _helping_ the instructor understand why I suck at reading by making me get stuck at home with a tutor instead.”

Crowley paused in his evaluation of the rice. “You wanna go back to your old public school, Kid? We can do that.” 

Warlock appeared to consider it for a moment before shaking his head. “Nah. It's easier to do commercials and movies and other stuff with the tutor. And I don't know how long I wanna do that either.” 

The rice needed to go. Fuuuuuuuuuuuk. He snagged the pot off the hob, sucking in his abdomen so as not to burn his midriff when his Tshirt slid upwards, and stepped on the waste bin pedal to scrape the burnt mess in. 

“Snip me more mint from the herbs, would you?” Crowley said to either boy. “Don't pinch off too many from one plant!”

“I know, Pop.” He trundled off, definitely making a face at him this time. 

“Chicken smells yummy, daddy!” Adam said while he attempted to peek through the glass on the oven door. 

“HOT!” Crowley swept Adam up in his arms and deposited him back toward his Lego monstrosity. 

There was knocking. Why was there knocking? He dropped his eyes to his watch. Much to his dismay, it was already time and the secondary steel access door between the private lift and the entrance to his penthouse was still locked. And his meal wasn't finished and his kitchen looked as though he was prepping for a party rather than a family meal. But there were already so many doubts swirling thanks to Lucifer's meddling and worries drawn up in Brussels, he didn't want to leave Aziraphale standing out there, confused. He stalked out of the kitchen, with a quick, “Hang on!” he hoped would be heard through the door, but he slowed to a stop outside a mirror adorning his front hallway. 

Fantastic. He hadn't a moment to wash up or slip into the casually elegant outfit he'd selected. 

Instead, he appeared flushed from his neckline to high up on his cheekbones, damp and rosy and throwing his amber eyes into further eeriness. He'd only gotten around to penciling in a bit of eyeliner in without anything else like he'd intended and somehow all together it seemed to make the loose ginger bun his hair was bundled into that much brighter. He'd worried his lower lip into a bitten red he'd never have chosen for an actual lipstick shade. His ancient Kinks tee shirt was too tight, the cotton washworn thin and far too casual for a date night. It still bore an obvious stain from meal-prep right at the sleeve hem where it encircled his left bicep. At least he'd gone with the Prada belt this morning, and that flattered his hips. Unfortunately, he still wore the distressed denim he'd wriggled into earlier with his mind on one last sweep-through of the penthouse to straighten up. His feet were bare as the day he was born, the deep purple nail enamel selected at his recent pedicure starkly contrasting with the thick fawn carpeting. Warlock had even scolded him earlier for cooking without shoes. Shit shit shit. 

And Aziraphale was knocking again and Crowley was letting him linger too long and he was going to answer the door looking like he'd been rolled while crawling home the day after a wild rave. 

“Here goes nothing,” he muttered to his reflection and swung open the door. 

Opening his window blinds into the full swath of summer's noonday sunlight would _still_ pale in comparison to the brightness at his doorway. Aziraphale beamed a delighted, effervescent grin, dazzling in it's goodness. Crowley impulsively wanted to _drop to his knees in praise_. 

“Oh, spiffing!” Aziraphale chirped, hand still poised as if to knock again. “Quite the rigmarole to gain access to your building, let alone your floor, Crowley!”

“Er. Yeah,” said Crowley intelligently. He shook his head in hopes it would knock his brain back into gear. A curled lock of fluffy hair bounced before the right lens of Aziraphale's glasses. He stared at that for a moment. “Um. I lost track of time.” 

“No worries! But might I come in?” He lifted a hand gripping the handles of two paper sacks and met Crowley's eyes, expectant. 

“Of course!” He needed to get hold of himself and quit standing there like a fool. And the rice! “I have to get back to the rice I flubbed.” He backed away and turned to lead Aziraphale down the hallway toward his kitchen. He wondered if he should have hugged him. Maybe pecked him on the cheek or offered to take his bags. The entire situation seemed a little surreal; Aziraphale with him, in his home, where only handful of people and staff had been invited. He glanced behind to see Aziraphale following, his attention darting around the penthouse in curiosity. 

“I have a little bagful of bits and bobs for the boys, and I picked up a rather scrumptious looking cake from the bakery. I was hoping Warlock's audiobooks would be in by now, but it seems they're backlogged. I'm certain he mentioned his visit?” 

Crowley paused right outside his kitchen, his heart flickering in his chest. “I found out yesterday,” he settled on. 

“It was a bit of an adventure. If Mr. DeVil's intent was to frighten me off, I find myself underwhelmed.” Aziraphale tipped his head to the side and thank, fuck, Crowley thought, giddy in his anxiousness, his bookangel didn't appear to be phased by it all. “I almost felt sorry for him a bit,” Aziraphale continued. 

“No.” Crowley reached for the bag holding the cake so he would have something to squeeze and brushed Aziraphale's fingers because he could. “Don't. He does that, you know? Has a sort of,” he waved a hand flippantly while heading into the kitchen, “ _thing_ where you feel compelled to bend over backwards for him. His fans love him for it. But he'll crawl under your skin.” He placed the paper sack containing the cake onto the table and shifted Adam's Lego statue mindlessly, his thoughts a little lost in memories. When he shook them off and refocused, he realized Aziraphale was watching him with a soft expression. No judgment. “Which isn't always a good thing, believe me, but it is what it is.” 

“I see.” Aziraphale's gaze was so understanding, so naked in it's compassion, Crowley suddenly wished he'd have answered the door with his mirrored sunglasses affixed. But those were a shield, a barrier, and if anything, he didn't want their growing relationship burdened by that sort of obstacle. 

“So make yourself at home while I knock together a new batch of rice,” he offered breezily, like his heart wasn't sitting right at his throat in a bare exposure of his emotions. Something about Aziraphale knocked him off his game over and over. A tender, raw part of him inside quivered at the thought of it. 

“Do you need a hand?”

“Uh...” he managed, his mind gladly weaving up domesticated scenarios he hadn't even known he craved. He was saved by Warlock and Adam shuffling into the kitchen with handfuls of fresh herbs. Adam grinned around a sprig of basil hanging from his lips. 

“Hello,” Warlock said as if he often greeted people so casually. He deposited his handful of herbs onto the cutting board at Crowley's elbow. 

Crowley shot him a look that included one arched, suspicious eyebrow and glanced over at Aziraphale from where he'd stationed himself at the counter-top to restart the rice. Aziraphale was standing next to the table, wringing his hands. 

“You could-” Crowley began.

“I'm happy to-” Aziraphale said at the same time. 

They both paused. Crowley thought he heard Warlock hiss an exasperated, “Oh my God,” beneath his breath. 

“You bing me more book?” Adam asked cheerfully, completely oblivious to the awkward atmosphere. 

“Adam!” Crowley's felt his ears heat up as he hunched over the stock pot and finished adding the precise water measurement this time. He popped it onto the hob and set the timer, and he took the moment to shut his eyes and calm down. This was ridiculous.

He was ridiculous.

He'd spent a good chunk of time looking forward to today only to be derailed by all his stealthy doubts and worries. In the past, he'd gone headfirst with others right into fucking them and thought the carnal physicality of it all meant they were close. But this everyday evening with Aziraphale in his home with his children, with Aziraphale seeing him caught off guard and disheveled and _not minding_? It felt much more intimate than any sex. 

The realization thrilled and terrified him with equal measure. 

“You,” he pointed at Adam, who'd stuffed the chewed basil into his pockets in a move Crowley would need to recall prior to the housekeeper arriving to do the laundering. “Go get the carrots and the bagged salad from the fridge, got it?” He fit the lid on the rice and left it to fate. “Table setting beyond plates, Kid?” he asked Warlock. His son was standing on his tippy toes to peer one of the paper sacks Aziraphale had brought with. 

“That's a chocolate torte from the bakery not too far from my shop.” He freed it from the paper and placed it on the table. Adam rushed over with the bundle of carrots slapping against his knees so he could place a hand flat on the top. 

“Eat it first!” he said, giggling the entire time. 

Warlock elbowed him gently. Crowley watched as Aziraphale pushed the cake further to the center of the table and removed a pile of magazines and two books from the other bag. 

“Perhaps not quite yet, Adam,” Aziraphale said. He snuck a bashful glance over at Crowley, perhaps seeking permission or critique and then handed the two colorful picture books over instead. “But these two, they came in with a recent bulk auction bid. They're more current editions, little monetary value beyond their cover price,” he explained, and then he looked over at Crowley apologetically, as if Crowley wasn't standing there in wonderment, watching Aziraphale interact _with his boys_.

“Oh but their literary value!” His eyes lit up and he returned his attention back to Adam. “Such entertaining tales! A dragon and swordfighting in one and a bat who's lost her family in the other and winds up being raised by birds, if you can imagine!” 

“Our movie has sword fighting in it!” Warlock shared. “First, Inigo goes ' You are using Bonetti’s Defense against me, ah?'” He made a dramatic gesture with a fork he'd been setting on the table. “Then the pirate goes, 'I thought it fitting considering the rocky terrain.'” 

“I've read the book but never-” 

“You never saw _The Princess Bride_?” His eyes were wide, and he appeared shocked. 

“Did you know it was a book before it was a movie?” Aziraphale said. He tapped an illustration in the picture book Adam already had open. 

Warlock paused in his task of adding silverware to the plates. “You can't _read_ a sword-fight!” he squawked. 

“Oh just wait until those audiobooks come in,” Aziraphale gushed, and they were off in talking about rodents and battles and other things Crowley was clueless over.

Adam brought the books to his chest, the grin on his face wide and toothy. “Is okay I look at 'em now, Daddy?” 

“Yeah, but I can't read them now,” he answered absently, suddenly frozen. He wanted to move closer to the tableau before him, needed to, but instead, he could only gaze as if he were at the observatory on a clear night. 

There was Aziraphale, his bookangel, _his angel_ , with his riot of messy light curls and elegantly manicured french-tipped fingers handing over a stack of oddball _Aquarian_ magazines for Warlock's amusement and chatting over a _book_ of all things. He was standing in the middle of Crowley's kitchen in a dated purl knit yellow and blue sleeveless jumper over a pale slate shirt, his eyes a sky blue behind wide lenses, and Crowley was nearly sure he loved him. His tan brogues only lent him an extra half-inch of height and his tummy fell softly rounded over the top button of trousers at least forty years out of date, and Crowley loved him. He was everything everyone said would never work, would never be the right type or good enough for someone as desirable to the world as Crowley, and he loved him. 

He knew it was too soon, too abrupt, too spot-on for someone with a history of diving too deep too fast, but he found himself crossing the kitchen and slipping his hands around both of Aziraphale's and pulling them both to his lips to press a kiss to Aziraphale's knuckles. 

He peered down at Aziraphale's surprised face and squashing down what his gut wanted him to blurt, said, “Could you prep the carrots for the salad?” 

Aziraphale's smile flickered. “Peel, yes. Chop?” he glanced down toward Crowley's toes. Crowley took a brief moment to duck his nose in to Aziraphale's curls. 

“Too much?” he asked gently. He squeezed Aziraphale's hands once in comfort. 

“I'm not so much steady with knives any longer.” When he glanced back up to meet Crowley's eyes, his own were glassy and shinning. “Just another encumbrance from my mishap, I'm afraid.” He pulled one hand free and splayed it palm facing upward so the slight trembling was apparent. 

“Hey,” Crowley whispered, “we talked about this already, right? Everybody has shit happening. 'S why we call it 'shit' and not 'super happy funtimes'.” He impulsively reached to lay his hand atop Aziraphale's palm-to-palm in a show of his acceptance. His skin fizzled like carbonation where they touched. 

“You are something else,” Aziraphale said just as softly. He blinked a few times and pushed up to his tiptoes to press his lips to Crowley's cheek before turning to the table. “So boys,” he glanced between them and if his voice was a little shaky, Crowley would never mention it. “Where would I find a peeler in this vast kitchen?” 

Dinner prep continued on, relatively calm in spite of the previous cooking mishap. Crowley pulled the chicken to rest atop the counter and leaned against the marble to watch while Aziraphale tore lettuce for the salad and popped a leaf into his mouth. He must have felt the weight of Crowley's gaze because he stopped chewing like a startled rabbit and offered a shy smile. 

“Oh wow, is this you, Pop?” Warlock had the pile of magazines spread out on the floor and held one aloft. 

“Those are all from my friend Anathema's publishing house. That's her flagship publication. Apologies, Crowley,” he circled the table and after a moment, settled next to Crowley by his prep area. “But if Warlock starts going on about big foot and underground mole people, that'll be my fault.”

“Eh, no different from trolls and orcs or whatever it is they play. Give it here, Kid, and I'll take a look.” 

As soon as Warlock handed it over, Crowley murmured, “Oh yeah, I remember this campaign.” Louder, he added, “Yeah, that's me. Ages ago though. How old didya say these were?” 

Aziraphale shook his head but flatteringly, his eyes were glued to the old advert featured in the magazine. Sweaty and oiled down and bare-chested other than the straps of the canvas pack slung across his back, Crowley was meant to be slashing his way through a jungle guided only by the help of the featured TAG Heuer watch. Off set, his hair was blown back by a wind machine so it flowed behind as if caught in a storm in the photograph. He gripped a considerably cheesy prop machete in his hand he remembered flopping around like rubber. His expression appeared very determined and aggressive, but Crowley recalled how it was more related to his treatment on-location as a brainless set of abs in comparison to the respect he'd been garnering within his recent astrophysics programme of study. 

It was one of Crowley's first big contracts, not long after his first fashion week runway experience with Celestial Bodies Modeling Agency. It would not be the last time he'd be treated like a piece of meat, but it was the first someone on staff would proposition him in return for 'making him a star.' 

“They're so stupid when they plan these things, Pop, don't it drive you loony? Like you'd totally be walking around in a forest with long hair hanging everywhere to get snagged in branches and pick up ticks.”

“A little,” he admitted, and shit, he knew he was blushing some; he really did look like a ginormous jackass in this campaign, though he had thought he appeared dashing nearly a decade ago. He flicked his gaze over at Aziraphale for a brief moment to assess what he thought of the whole thing, this sliver of reality with Anthony Crowley, supermodel popping up in widely circulated print rather than the relative anonymity Aziraphale might expect with an average neighborhood beau. 

“Daddy!” Adam said, pulling the magazine from his hand. “You funny!”

“I think you look very fetching, very serious in your pursuit of... well, whatever you're meant to be doing,” Aziraphale consoled, but it was so suffused with an understanding of the ridiculousness of it all, Crowley could only grin. 

“He looks like he got dropped into Jumanji when he really was just repotting the herb garden,” Warlock teased behind a cupped hand toward Aziraphale while snickering. Crowley mussed his hair in retribution, biting back a grin. That little aside, so simple and casual on Warlock's part, revealed a wealth of information on how accepting he was of Aziraphale's presence in their home. 

“All right, all right. Give the goofy model a break and let's dig into this supper we spent the last three hours on, yeah?”

“Oh Crowley,” Aziraphale said, hands clasped right above his belly they way they were when he seemed anxious, but he was bouncing on his toes. “I was wondering if everything was ready. It smells wonderful! You didn't need to go to such a fuss!”

Crowley turned to carry the roasted chicken to the table and sputtered out something incoherent while he struggled to contain his blush. There was likely a general audience rated way to mention- _oh, it was no trouble at all, watching you enjoy your meal before with such abandon got me horny!-_ but he couldn't quite conjure up the words. 

Rather, he concentrated very intently on carving the chicken, serving his boys the thankfully nicely done rice, and quite decidedly _not_ responding physically to the appreciative little moans escaping from Aziraphale's lips. 

“The herb blend, such a treat, Crowley!” His expression was one of joy and fascination, and he kept _looking_ at Crowley as if he'd pulled the moon close enough to completely throw off the ocean tide. “This is really too gorgeous! And I know it's quite naughty to partake in the skin based on all the heart-health warnings, but my word, it's just so crisp and tempting I simply cannot pass it up!”

“Oh good,” was all Crowley could seem to choke out when he noticed how Aziraphale's lips had gone shinny from the fat and how his eyes had fluttered half lidded as if he couldn't help himself from indulging so decadently. “I mean. It's a chicken n' stuff. I made it myself. In the oven,” he added, nearly spooning rice onto the rim of his plate instead of a more appropriate spot because he couldn't tear his eyes away.

Warlock snorted around a mouthful, and when Crowley snapped his head that way, his son had facepalmed. “'In the oven' he says,” he was mumbling under his fingers. Crowley narrowed his eyes at him and chose to hold his tongue and check on Adam. 

Predictably, Adam's chicken leg had been stripped clean, but his rice and salad remained untouched. “Gotta eat some plants, Stardust.” 

“I'ma T-wex 'n they don't eat plants!”

“That's sweet,” said Aziraphale before Crowley could nudge his son into at least a bit of carrot. 

“Hmmm?” 

Crowley turned to see Aziraphale watching their interaction with a soft expression. “Stardust. Your nicknames. And you call Warlock-” 

“My Kid, and it's not 'sweet',” Crowley mumbled, somewhat embarrassed to be caught out. “'S a holdover from when I first came into his life and married his Father. Before Lilith relinquished custody so I could adopt him.” He glanced back over at Warlock, who had ducked his head to his dish so his fringe fell around his reddening face. He shoveled rice into his mouth as only a flattered pre-teen could. Crowley's chest swelled with pride and affection.

“Wanted him to know I thought of him as my own right away so he wouldn't feel like I was taking his Father away or something.” He personally moved house fairly often as a foster child and knew he would have loved to have known he was secure somewhere. He watched Warlock for a moment, lost in memories of how strange and sudden those early days were, how fast it was moving. But also in how something had clicked right in his gut the moment Lucifer had taken little four year old Warlock by the hand after only a few outings between the three of them and had said, ' _Anthony will be your step-father soon. Please be on your best behavior for him!'_

Warlock's head untucked from shying away and he flashed the faintest of smiles at Crowley before glancing at Aziraphale. “'N Pop calls _you_ bookangel for a nickname and everybody knows it, and it's all lovey-dovey mushy and mushy stuff is grooooossssss!” He grinned and added, “Can I get a wing?” 

Crowley turned to Aziraphale at the same time he looked back. They both blushed like schoolkids and Crowley glanced at his plate. This had a chance, he thought while paying undue attention to selecting his next mouthful. An actual potential of working if he could just keep Aziraphale away from the scathing awfulness of the gossip tabloids and general cruelty of his world. Keep him safe, he thought, peeking over to watch him easily sharing a table with his family.

*

With their meal finished, clean up went quick, although Warlock and Adam drifted off early and reappeared in the nearby sitting room with plastic lightsabers. 

“They're rather enthused,” Aziraphale observed while adding tinfoil to the remainders of the chicken. 

“Oh gosh, I got that.” Crowley liberated the platter from him and stowed it into the refrigerator. He didn't want Aziraphale to feel like he needed to earn his place in Crowley's presence, that he needed to take care of the messy things or chores unfitting for a celebrity or something equally absurd. It wouldn't have been the first time a lover behaved that way, like Crowley was too special to sully his hands with menial tasks. But Aziraphale only just rolled his eyes. 

“Are you the sort picky on how your leftovers are kept?” he teased. 

Crowley didn't have the heart to tell him he rarely bothered to even keep leftovers when their personal dietitian and nutritionist per-portioned out the majority of their meals. Or about days when the personal chef he shared with Lucifer and a handful of others prepared an equally measured meal on occasion. 

“Daaaaaaady!” came a tearful cry from the next room. Crowley shoved the remaining salad away and took off that direction. 

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale said softly, joining him at his heels. “Is he hurt?”

“Eh, could be but more likely-” he said, skidding to a halt. Adam held his lightsaber dejectedly toward the carpet while Warlock stuck his tongue out, his own held over his shoulder like a golf club.

“Wawlock cut my head off!” 

“No I didn't!”

“Yes you do!”

“Well you hit my ankle! That's not on!”

“You has two! I only gots one head, Daaaaaady!” 

Crowley clenched his teeth together and stole a glance at Aziraphale. This was an entirely different sort of dose of reality, but it was the most important one in Crowley's life.

Aziraphale thankfully only appeared amused. “Oh goodness,” he said beneath his breath. “What a pickle to be in.”

“Hey you two,” Crowley growled, though fairly gently. “Knock it off or you'll lose them.” 

Warlock swung his head so his hair flipped dramatically in a move so reminiscent of his father, Crowley failed to cover his snort. “He started it. He's just jealous he's not tall enough to beat me!”

Adam stamped his foot. “I tall 'nuff.” He lifted the lightsaber with both hands, the plastic weight and length just unwieldy enough to be awkward for his size. “Ungards!”

Crowley watched them for a moment, aware Aziraphale had drawn up very near and had pressed against his side. “If I might,” he whispered, gesturing at the children with his plump finger. His shorter stature meant his warm breath hit Crowley right at a sensitive spot near his clavicle. Crowley concentrated very very hard on not shivering inappropriately. He thought he hummed an agreement but wasn't sure. Whatever he'd said though encouraged Aziraphale to head over to Adam's side. 

“Short means nothing when it comes to fencing, my dearest,” he said to Adam. “You called this a sabre, yes? Not one I'd recognize, of course.”

“You never saw Star Wars either?” Warlock blurted. His eyebrows were both arched far above his eyes. 

“Apologies,” Aziraphale said, undeterred. “Well a sabre is plenty lighter than the epee, which I'm more familiar with. The foil is my preference for a light blade. But notwithstanding, your height has nothing on your ability. In fact,” and he smiled really quite deviously in a way that made parts of Crowley perk up and take notice, “So many opponents are used to facing someone of average height, they tend to fall over themselves in overcompensation when a shorter opponent enters the piste.” He wiggled his eyebrows and pushed his sliding glasses back up at the bridge. 

“You know this stuff?” Warlock asked, reluctantly interested even though Aziraphale had taken Adam's side. 

“Oh dear, it's been ages.” He pinked up, and finally he turned his head toward Crowley. “I fenced a bit throughout childhood and took up with a club when I began Exeter. It was just for a spot of fun and the only society I joined, really until.. until I couldn't any longer.” 

Adam shoved the plastic toy in his hand. “Get Wawlock!” he cheered. “Bookandel on Adam side!” 

“Ha! I can take on anything!” Warlock pointed the lightsaber at them with a grin that lit up his whole face.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale asked. 

“Go on, I wanna see this.” Crowley folded his arms across his chest as if it could keep the weird thrumming inside at bay. Aziraphale was _goofing_ with his sons playfully rather than ignoring them or seeing them as unfortunate obstacles to tolerate on the way to getting into Crowley's pants. Even more of his misgivings fell away at the sight. 

“Well. Alright.” Aziraphale's ears were a florid red by now and a rather attractive flush brightened his cheeks. He took some sort of pose Crowley'd seen in fencing matches before on film and faced Warlock. His knee made an audible popping sound. “As I said, it's been a while.” 

But when Warlock lunged at him, giggling with glee, Aziraphale's eyes blazed. He blocked the attack and pushed the sword aside while holding ground. When Warlock came after him again, swinging wildly and shouting, “Die, rebel scum!”, Aziraphale stepped back and turned, lunged forward, and with a quick flip of his wrist and quick as a blink, he had Warlock's lightsaber in his own hands.

“We winned!” Adam cheered. He clapped his hands and looked over at Crowley for approval. 

“I saw!” was all Crowley could manage, completely caught up in Aziraphale showing off a few more moves to Warlock. 

“So that last was a bit of a parry, then retreat, prior to the in-quartata, then a quick riposte with an extension to disarm.” He turned back to Adam and showed him some of the steps in careful slow motion. “I'm bigger than Warlock, but if he learned this, he could easily disarm me or score points off me as well.” 

“It no matter if Adam not big yet!” Adam said while accepting the lightsaber back from Aziraphale. 

“No, and don't allow anyone to tell you different!” He snuck a glance over at Crowley and flashed a brief smile. 

“Woah!” Warlock mimicked some of the footwork around the other side of the coffee table. “Can you do more of that stuff? That's so cool!”

Aziraphale turned again and tossed Warlock his toy back as well. He was panting lightly and fluttered his eyes, abashed. “Though you hardly ever disarm in competition. You're more focused on scoring points.” He returned to Crowley's side near the entertainment center as he explained. Crowley couldn't read his expression other than the odd sort of shyness now obvious. “Unfortunately, or fortunately for them, I guess, I provided my opponents quite a broad area to target,” he gestured to his waistline and chest and ducked his head some, “so I really had to focus on my defense and footwork.”

Crowley winced at the easy way Aziraphale must have absorbed negative comments in his life to so casually speak of himself in that fashion. He was determined to chisel away at it. “Just when I think I have a handle on you,” he murmured, unable to resist reaching for Aziraphale's hand and pulling him closer. Another little slide of the puzzle box that was Aziraphale; Crowley would gently tap at every piece until he earned his way to the very heart of him within. 

For now, he ached to wrap his arms around Aziraphale, reassure him and just feel his solidness against his own. He wanted it, but he wasn't sure they were at that place yet, where he could just casually embrace him. Instead, Crowley drew him close, kissed him lightly at his temple, and whispered, “If there's a story there you think I should know, I'm happy to listen whenever you're ready to share it.”

“Nothing too exciting.” Aziraphale remained near Crowley but his eyes followed Warlock moving to set up the entertainment center for streaming. “Was something I enjoyed in- well- in a previous life, if you will.” He glanced upward, and in spite of the light lines of tension around his eyes behind his thick lenses, his smile was genuine. “But I suppose there shall be all sorts of fancy Hollywood sword antics in the film if it's true to the book!” 

Crowley accepted the deflection for what it was and notched a mental note on it being a subject to be careful around. Instead, he offered, “Go ahead and get comfortable.” He drummed his fingertips together and pressed one hand to his chest, the other extended toward his rather luxurious sofa selected in a brave white that had miraculously survived the antics of two children thus far into it's life. 

Both Warlock and Adam had curled into a mountain of pillows and blankets upon the floor and settled in as the movie began. 

Crowley feigned a casualness he didn't quite feel inside while Aziraphale took a seat near the arm of the sofa and sat primly upon the edge of the cushion. He folded his hands upon his knees and seemed to study Crowley in curiosity. 

Aziraphale was sitting on his sofa. Aziraphale was _sitting on his sofa_ in his private home not far from Crowley's most precious beings, waiting for Crowley to join him so they might perhaps cuddle demurely while he became part of a treasured family experience Crowley hadn't permitted anyone into before. 

It was unknown territory and utterly electrifying. He switched the majority of the lights off and waited for his eyes to adjust by watching Aziraphale. The golden straw hue of his hair appeared an ethereal blue in the glow cast by the television. His glasses reflected the movement on screen. 

“Crowley?” Aziraphale's fingers wove together tightly. He squirmed in place just enough to betray an undercurrent of anxiety. 

“Yeah,” he said absently while staring. I want to pull you into my lap and feel your weight press me into the cushions, he thought. I want to straddle you and grind down until you breathe the same little moans you do when tasting something decadent. He shook his head so even more loose strands escaped from his sloppy bun. Tempting his date or hook-up into screwing on the sofa after a night out while the boys were safely elsewhere was familiar, was what he was _excellent at;_ it was what he _knew_. 

But he also craved the idea of Aziraphale just being there, being himself, perhaps sitting at his side, relaxed and comfortable. And most importantly, _together_ while they traded stories and light touches and whatever else two people who wanted each other did when they weren't all seeking hands and raunchy kisses. He didn't know, he realized. Even his relationship with Lucifer remained edged with tension, never settling into comfortableness. They tended toward frantic passion in the moments they had with each other, with secretive handjobs or more beneath piled blankets while an infant Adam slept on and Warlock's attention was caught up by the latest Disney film. Always deflecting further closeness and understanding with sex. None of this...this... demure contentedness. 

How fucked-up was he that he found the simple joyful act of snuggling on the sofa without intent to be completely foreign? 

He must have been standing there for a good bit of time by this point because the Dread Pirate Roberts was climbing a cliff on screen and Aziraphale was sitting even further ram-rod straight still at the edge of the sofa, blinking at him with wide blue eyes accentuated by his thick lenses. The corners of his soft lips were curled downward. Crowley _really_ didn't enjoy seeing that concerned expression on his lovely face. 

“I'm just enjoying the enticing view,” Crowley said quietly, aware of little ears nearby and the sin of talking during the film. He slipped over and sat close enough to feel the heat of Aziraphale's body in spite of the available space on the three cushion sofa. When he propped his bare feet on the coffee table, he was pleased to see how Aziraphale's eyes tracked them as if unable to resist. 

“Oh do be serious,” Aziraphale murmured. But he seemed to relax some. His cheeks swiftly became dusted with the enticing pink they tended toward when he became flustered. “Do you mind if I take your hand?” 

Crowley glanced over at him. “Uh, sure?” What had made him even ask? 

Aziraphale reached for Crowley's hand and squeezed it gently before shifting so they pressed palm to palm, fingers threaded and resting on Aziraphale's thigh. The touch was so innocent, so sweet, and Crowley abruptly realized he hadn't just held hands with a man he wanted to fuck against the nearest flat surface, hell, wanted to _love_ perhaps ever in his existence. 

“I'm sorry,” Aziraphale added, barely audible. His eyes were still directed toward Crowley's toes. 

“Why?” This time he spoke it aloud, loud enough Warlock turned his head and shhhhed them. 

Aziraphale shifted in the seat so he could whisper near Crowley's ear. “Crowley. Your hesitance at being near...” he trailed off and shook his head. “I know my plodding ways are not what you're accustomed towards. So if you do have a change of heart, would rather just be friends, I-”

“Not happening 'n it really was just me perving on you like a creeper, not _'hesitance'_ ,” Crowley grumbled the last word and briefly leaned into Aziraphale's side. 

"Crowley!" This time, Aziraphale whispered his name in more of a playful scolding, much more preferable than the uncertainty before. 

They sat quietly this way for a time. Something warm within Crowley's chest curled tight and purred in a pleased fashion. His attention hyper-focused on where their legs brushed, where wisps of Aziraphale's puffy hair tickled at Crowley's cheek as Crowley perhaps not so indiscreetly tipped his head until his temple rested at the crown of Aziraphale's with the barest brush of pressure. His hand against Aziraphale's burned in the best way. So simple. So comfortable. And yet, his growing want never faded. It gathered and simmered within, banked but eager and pawing at where Crowley contained it. 

He'd never held back in this way, had _no idea_ how exquisite the ache of it all could be, the anticipation. He hoped Aziraphale understood how very much okay he was with waiting and with Aziraphale himself.

“Angel,” he whispered, unable to stop. He spared a glance between Adam and Warlock to reassure they were occupied on the screen. He tightened his grip the slightest bit more. “ 'Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much, Which mannerly devotion shows in this; For saints have hands that pilgrims' hands do touch, and palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss.' “ 

Aziraphale's head whipped towards his own so that the tips of their noses nearly brushed. His eyes were shinning again and his lips were parted in a stunned gasp. Rather than respond to Crowley with words, he lifted their joined hands to rest them above his heart and returned his attention to the film. 

Good bookangel, Crowley thought, failing to hide his pleased smile. 

The next space of time passed this way, with Crowley silently cuddled on the sofa with Aziraphale in a satisfying way that seeped into his very bones. 

“Oh! Oh my,” Aziraphale whispered softly as Buttercup shoved The Dread Pirate Roberts/Wesley down the hill and subsequently tumbled after him. “Life _is_ pain for him!”

“Are you saying you wouldn't fling yourself off a hill after me, angel?” Crowley teased and then stiffened slightly when he realized the context of the entire scene.

“No.” Aziraphale released Crowley's hand much to his disappointment and adjusted his sleeveless jumper so it pulled back over his belly. But when he turned to Crowley, his expression held a subtle wickedness. “I would descend the hill in a civilized fashion and greet you at the base with open arms. Unless you're covered in all manner of debris. Then a hearty greeting and handshake will do.” He grinned, and Crowley needed to physically restrain himself from shoving his tongue down Aziraphale's throat. 

He did however indulge in the opportunity to slide an arm along the back of the sofa so it didn't quite touch Aziraphale, but could if he wanted. He leaned in to whisper into Azirphale's ear and reveled in how his angel shivered. “I'd never leave you in the dark like that for five years like he did. Not even five days ever again if I can help it,” he reassured with both humor and seriousness. 

Aziraphale softened his posture just enough for him to lean back into Crowley's arm. “Thank you, my dearest,” he said softly, and Crowley knew it wasn't just over what he'd just said. 

“Old people, hush it!” Warlock barked from his pillow fort. “You're worse than Adam!” 

Aziraphale ducked his head with a soft 'whoops!' but Crowley heard his giggles. His heart soared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> opening horoscope for Pisces is the general non-specific from astrology . com for aug. 1st 2020
> 
> Title and quote by Crowley from Romeo and Juliet (insert act and scene here) 
> 
> I gave Crowley an $11,000 oven range because I want one. It costs more than the car I currently drive. That is also more then the down payment I am putting on a whole-ass house. 
> 
> As this fanfic is an act of indulgence, my form of self-insert in this fic is going to be shoehorning in shit I like. This is why they are watching _The Princess Bride_.
> 
> Other half should be up in 24-48 hours depending. If you see a glaring error, weird spacing etc. let me know as I am sick of looking at this and keep finding random things like misspelling Aziraphale's name in spite of two people staring at this for weeks adlfka;ljf;sldkfjsdf


	24. Kiss of palms II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank y'all for the patience for me to get this second half up! I appreciate everyone's thoughts and will get to them ASAP. This entire chapter ended up 28 typed pages in open office, which might be more than my wonky internet can handle in one go. 
> 
> mild content warning in end notes regarding some of Crowley's self-thoughts if you're the type that needs to know it all going in. (I am. I always check because on a bad day I internalize fiction way too much. It's why I get overcautious with warnings even when it's probably overkill.)

_Leo horoscope for Love :If you feel that you are swimming in a sea of controversy, perhaps you should consider the alternative. This is to be on dry land, and just not moving at all - in other words, stranded. Accept the place where you find yourself, and just get on with sorting out your problems, as this offers the best alternative to what you are considering - which is running away._

Crowley did settle for the remainder of the film as even Aziraphale got into it, though Aziraphale occasionally murmured about differences between book and film, declaring the script as 'one of the few times a cinematic depiction of a female character as very much improved over the novel.' 

When the credits began rolling, Warlock exploded from his fort and nearly trampled a sleeping Adam in his haste to throw himself on the sofa next to Crowley with an enormous bounce. 

“Whatdya think! Whatdya think!” he chirped. Crowley recognized that tone of voice as several steps beyond overtired. 

Aziraphale's gaze paused on Crowley's eyes briefly before meeting Warlock's. “I find myself surprised to say this-” he glanced at Crowley and actually _winked_ at him, “I believe they somehow managed to mold the script into something better than the book itself! Particularly the happier ending,” he added. “But don't tell anyone I said such a thing. I have standards as a bookseller I'm meant to keep.” He punctuated the last by holding his index finger to his lips in a hushing gesture. 

Warlock mimed zipping his lips and nodded. 

“Okay, Kid. Go brush your teeth. You reek!” He grinned to himself when his son heaved off the bed with a put-on whine but proceeded dutifully to the hallway leading to their bedrooms. “You'll have to excuse me for a mo',” he said to Aziraphale as he rose to his own feet. “Gotta get that sack of potatoes into bed.” 

“Go on. I'll find something to entertain myself,” Crowley heard Aziraphale say. He felt a muscle pull in his back when he lifted Adam's ungainly sleeping bulk- putting off yoga again, he scolded himself as he wobbled some before regaining his balance. One peek over his shoulder revealed Aziraphale watching with that soft mellowness as before. Crowley tried not to blush as he also made his way down the same hall as Warlock. 

He bundled Adam into bed and clicked on his inaccurate star-field nightlight. His bushy curls fanned out around his chubby cheeks like a valentine cherub as he snuggled into the pillows and mumbled something that sounded like 'Duck book.' Crowley wondered why someone somewhere found him good enough a person to surround him with angels. 

“Sorry Stardust, you're already out for the count.” He brushed a wayward strand from Adams nose and left to check on Warlock. 

“So you gonna have a sleepover?” was the first thing out of Warlock's mouth with a smile caught up with humor. 

Crowley blushed and spit out a startled, “Erk,” before snagging a stuffed tortoise from the foot of the bed to whump his son with. “No!” he managed. “That means something different to adults I hope you know. Don't go 'round asking it!” 

Warlock fluffed his pillow and made a face. “Yeah, means more gross kissing like at the end of movies and then you go to sleep in the same bed and one of you snores really loud and the other one kicks you a lot in your sleep until you both yell and get dee-vor-sid.” 

“Oi, Kid,” Crowley began, but he had to smile. There really was no other option, was there? “Gotta be quick tonight. Can't leave him hanging out there.” 

“It's weird,” Warlock said softly after pausing. Something choked up in Crowley's throat. 

“Yeah?” he croaked. He coughed awkwardly, but pushed on. “I won't let anyone come between our family, you know that, right? One word from you or Adam, and I'll step back. I don't think Aziraphale's the type to- to get upset.” Crowley'd hate it. He'd try his best not to resent it, but he'd do it, and worse, Aziraphale would probably smile with sad eyes and nod his understanding, only to drift back into his four walls. 

Warlock grabbed at his elbow though when he made to stand. “No, maybe I mean different. Like it's already weird now. When you and Father stopped bein' happy with each other, I was scared I wouldn't see you anymore cuz I never really saw Mother anymore. But then you started being happy again and even Father wasn't grouchy.” 

“Well,” Crowley nearly squeaked out, completely at a loss. “We just talked about this when you got back from Lilith's! You're my kid, right? I wasn't gonna leave you! And your mother was very good about letting me in.” 

“I think Mister 'Zaraphale is nice too 'n Father will hafta be okay with him. He's like a teacher 'n stuff, but I bet he could kick someone's arse in.” 

“Warlock!” Crowley shook his head while hissing his son's name, and he really _was_ embarrassed this time. “Don't... don't get all caught up in making stories up about Aziraphale. There's some info you don't know.” The last thing Crowley wanted was to see a bloom of disappointment on Warlock's face when Aziraphale couldn't possibly live up to his son's fantastical expectations, nor the perceived failure Aziraphale might experience at not being good enough in his son's eyes. And this was all before any of the press sank their claws into Aziraphale. 

“Maybe _you're_ the one who can't see it with all your protective stuff like you do to me,” Warlock whispered and glanced at the door as if Aziraphale might hear. Crowley unconsciously mimicked him, his emotions a tangled mess. “You think we can't handle stuff, like how everyone reckons Clark Kent is boring and clumsy and don't expect him to be superman. 'Sides. You should've seen how funny Father was after we got his book. He kept ranting about how Mr. 'Ziraphale had a bunch of books in front of him on dating people with kids n' other stuff like it was a bad thing. But it really was a _good thing_ 'cuz you're s'posda look up stuff you don't know so you can get better, and even superman says learning stuff is a superpower.” 

Crowley couldn't say anything in response to that. He shook his head, amazed at how kids could see through the smog when it really counted sometimes. “Yeah,” he said after a few moments, voice hushed. “Yeah,” he repeated, lost for words. “Get some sleep, will ya?” He pecked a kiss on Warlock's forehead, determined to keep the little bedtime ritual up until Warlock went through the inevitable phase of being too 'cool' for it and left the room, deep in thought. 

*

He expected Aziraphale to be comfortably waiting on the sofa, perhaps having snagged a book from the little shelf of offerings near the fireplace. Aziraphale might be anxious over being actually alone with Crowley in the closest to privacy they'd experienced beyond their brief shared kiss in his shop and time in his Bentley. Maybe Aziraphale would be amenable to a spot of good-old fashioned snogging on the sofa? Nothing too tawdry with kids right down the hall, of course, but rather sexy and hot in it's own way. The image in Crowley's mind was vivid enough to encourage a heady warmth to comfortably settle low in his belly. 

Not in one of these imaginings did he anticipate stumbling on Aziraphale in his kitchen attending to the washing up. His sleeveless jumper was missing, folded and draped over the back of a nearby chair, and he leaned at the sink, dress-shirt sleeves rolled to the elbow to reveal damp and soapy forearms and wrists. He was humming something unrecognizable and appeared so very soft and content with a trace smile gracing his lips. 

Well fuck. For a very bizarre and terrifying moment like earlier that evening, Crowley feared Aziraphale must have thought that Crowley _expected_ him to clean up after them, like it was his _place_ , like he needed to be grateful to be allowed near a celebrity of Crowley's desirability and had to earn that proximity. 

Aziraphale paused mid-tune and glanced over his shoulder. “I might live alone, but I know my way around a kitchen, Crowley,” he chided, clearly mistaking the startled codfish expression Crowley must have been flashing. 

Crowley stared while Aziraphale made short work of a bowl, his shoulders and arms flexing in interesting ways. He wanted Aziraphale to feel special, to feel as though he had nothing to worry about or measure up to in comparison. He wanted him to feel comfortable and welcome and possibly to indulge Crowley's subtle attempts at seduction. But he could only gape at how the steam brightened Aziraphale's cheeks and how Aziraphale bounced on his toes with some joy at successfully removing a stubborn spot on a plate. 

He wanted... 

he wanted... 

“I have a dishwasher. And a housekeeper that pops in,” he murmured low, and what the hell, did he sound winded, he wondered numbly? He cleared his throat and couldn't seem to keep his eyes off the way a little soap bubble caught the light in a rainbow swirl as it rest at the crook of Aziraphale's elbow and glided slowly over his flexed forearm until it joined it's brethren in the sink. 

Crowley stepped in the room and now his eyes were drawn to the dampness curling Aziraphale's hair at the nape of his neck. A dishtowel draped over his shoulder seeped a darkened spot of fabric over his slate colored dress shirt. 

“At least let me dry,” Crowley managed. He crossed the kitchen and moved close to pull the towel from Aziraphale's shoulder. 

“Oh that'd be lovely!” Aziraphale turned a starlight smile at him that creased the corners of his eyes, as if he were the one grateful for assistance. As if he hadn't just bulldozed through walls Crowley hadn't even known he'd built to forcefully separate the sultry fantasy!Crowley image he knew potential and ongoing lovers craved- expected even- from the regular, everyday boring Crowley who baked chicken nuggets and had to crawl on his knees to wipe up spilled milk. 

He dried a wet stoneware bowl until it squeaked and marveled at how Aziraphale continued to easily slip in and caress the very quick of his soul. 

A bubble escaped and floated up until it popped near enough to Aziraphale's glasses to splatter. 

“Might've used a tad bit too much soap,” Aziraphale said ruefully. He fluttered his eyes at Crowley and crinkled his nose before turning back to the sink. 

Crowley gripped a plastic children's cup in his hand tighter so he wouldn't do something as brash as tip Aziraphale over the rim of the sink and nip at his neck like a goddamn vampire until his apologetic expression gave way to something else. 

“Wait until you see the calendar,” he chose to say instead, grasping at topics. “We took about a hundred of me soaped up in the shower with strategically arranged bubbles while stripped down to a cock sock. I'm sure CB will find a way to thrust more than one of those in,” he mused aloud, recalling Gabriel's entirely too interested and heavy gaze. 

He hip checked Aziraphale lightly for attention. “Did you get the little preview I sent you?” He asked this with a feigned nonchalance as if the question hadn't been burning him up inside from the moment he'd attached the pilfered raw image to an email Thursday evening. He'd selected it from a file he'd coaxed the photographer into sharing without the others' knowledge.

The photograph, taken at a library near the observatory with the natural light and aesthetics he and the photographer desired, captured a bit of the essence of what he hoped would appear in the final proofs: a casual, soft Crowley contemplative and yet still provocative in a Uriel Asante lightweight black silk shirt open at the front but skimming his arms so his bare wrists and sliver of exposed chest drew attention.

A weighty book on particle physics was propped carefully on his bare legs as he curled into a cozy chair tucked within the stacks. It was arranged so that the audience perspective might think the opened shirt provided his only modesty rather than the admittedly scant silk boxers he also wore. He'd actually read some of that book while waiting for his team to ready him; it was wildly out of date. 

He was so lost in his memory of the shoot and the daydreams he'd entertained about Aziraphale during it that he nearly missed Aziraphale's whispered words. He couldn't ignore the sudden stiffness in his shoulders though.

“Say again, angel?” he asked, all attention on Aziraphale now. 

“Ah. I was mostly speaking to myself. I haven't been able to open the file yet,” Aziraphale whispered. His stance tightened with anxiousness even further, and he seemed to concentrate far too strongly on removing some imagined spot on a plate. “Your Brussels trip,” He began. 

“Yeah,” Crowley said, shooting for casual but sounding wary to his own ears. 

Aziraphale continued with the same piece of dishware, elbow scrubbing hard so the water sloshed. “I wasn't able to, I mean, I will have a new computer soon, so that's only a temporary bother. But the image- I'm not able to download it and view it properly.” 

“Not a big deal. I should still have it on my phone.” Aziraphale's shoulders hunched up and Crowley really did start to worry. “I won't get in trouble for sending it to you,” he attempted, probing. 

“It's not... it's fine... it's-” Aziraphale released the plate so it sank back into the soapy water. Thankfully, he turned to face him and leaned against the counter for support. His eyebrows were drawn together in an expression Crowley hadn't noticed in their time together yet. He gnawed too harshly at his lower lip. 

“Angel,” Crowley whispered, concerned now. This wasn't the reaction he'd imagined at all. “What's going on?” He stepped closer and without thinking, reached to thumb Aziraphale's bitten lip into freedom. 

Thankfully, a nearly imperceptible sigh escaped Aziraphale like a feathered breath, and the brief shy smile returned. “You'll think I'm silly, but I best grow used to it, shan't I?” He rolled his eyes and appeared to lock his gaze onto the the art on Crowley's T-shirt. “I didn't see your bit of photoshoot yet, but I did however see a photo of you front page in _the Daily Star_ with- uh-,” he paused to take in a deep breath in a way that yanked a sinking feeling in Crowley's chest, “well, there was a young man wrapped around you rather intimately in some sort of pub. You seemed not to mind. In the photo, I mean.” Aziraphale continued to stare downward. 

Crowley was puzzled momentarily when the recollection slapped him in the face. His eyes widened in panic, and he wondered how long Aziraphale had been worrying at it in his mind. He certainly hadn't behaved like he'd been concerned, which was worse. It was like Aziraphale was _resigned_ to it as just part of attempting a relationship with Anthony 'the Demon' Crowley. 

“Nooo! No. That's not, it is _not_ anything you need to worry about.” Fuck fuck fuck. He scrambled to grab hold of both of Aziraphale's anxiously clenching hands. “Hey, hey, love, please look at me,” he continued in a hushed voice.

Aziraphale returned his gaze and thank whatever the fuck, he only appeared curious now with slight concern within his expression. 

“Our team out of Celestial Bodies met at a bar Tuesday evening to... so we could make some changes to the shoot that I wanted,” he settled on. “I ran into an old friend.” 

Aziraphale nodded slowly. 

“An old lover looking to reconnect, one I made clear to I'm not interested,” Crowley corrected, nearly pleading him to understand. 

Aziraphale shook his head. Crowley's heart tore at the small smile he attempted. “You don't have to explain yourself. We've only just started- well.” He inhaled deeply. He was close enough Crowley could nearly feel it as if it were his own. “My dear, whatever your reputation, I can only have faith you'll be honest in what you do share with me. I've no right to forbid you from courting others or to assume exclusive rights over your attentions.”

“Right. Courting. You're the oddest duck; how'd I not figure you'd say something like it.” He experienced an overwhelming relief though. This he could fix. He'd just have to remember ongoing Aziraphale needed very defined explanations from him, no unspoken assumptions. “I'm not seeing anyone else. I want you to expect to have 'exclusive rights over my attentions.' I might have the same hopes with you.” he aimed for light and teasing, but earnest, because Aziraphale seemed so dependent on clarity. It seemed the right tack because Aziraphale wasn't backing off, was actually blushing some now. 

“Well you have little to worry about on my end,” Aziraphale said in a soft voice. He slid his foot some so the toe of his beige brogues pressed right at the tender skin at the side of Crowley's still bare foot. “I often go along completely unnoticed by others. Funny, if you take into consideration the personality traits attributed to my sun sign.” 

Crowley cocked his head but said nothing in response. He vehemently disagreed. More than likely, Aziraphale was oblivious to the looks he garnered while out and about, because _Crowley'd_ noticed them. He'd given more than one admiring eye a glare while out together already. And once the press eventually did catch wind of his existence in Crowley's life, there would be no 'going along completely unnoticed.'

“Good. We're good? I'm good. I don't. You know. This is the first time I've ever invited someone else here that wasn't already here. Yep.” He wasn't sure what to do to shut his damn mouth up, so he stuffed his fingertips in the tight pockets of his jeans and looked down as he pressed his toes onto the top of his other foot, leaving a slowly fading little red mark. When he was ready to meet his Aziraphale's eyes again, he was utterly thrown. 

The affection in Aziraphale's expression and the apparent desire affecting his entire countenance struck Crowley with a visceral blow.

“Oh Crowley. My envy is unseemly. I should trust to hear it from you and no one else. But I understand why it must be difficult for them to let go of you in their hearts.” Aziraphale's eyes were wide, and his bottom lip sinfully pouty. His fingers were back to fidgeting and Crowley needed him so terribly that if it'd been only a year ago, it might have frightened him. 

“Eh,” he husked out, every molecule inside him a tiny metallic filament wrought tense and pulled like a magnet to Aziraphale's north. “They mostly want back into my-” he slid a shaky hand from his pocket just enough to make a lewd gesture near his groin. “They.. uh.. they don't actually want _just the real me_.” He kept his gaze locked to Aziraphale's, his voice gone low and sultry while the atmosphere sizzled high with a palpable electricity. 

“I want the real you,” Aziraphale whispered, his smile infused with a gentle tenderness at odds with the languid sort of hunger Crowley sensed from him, like a wave of heat greeting his chilled body when stepping in from the cold. “A little too much than is good for me.” 

The washing up remained unfinished, the dishtowel forgotten and dropped into the still-bubbly sink. Crowley fingers trembled with his need to hold back, to wait and allow Aziraphale to make any sort of move. He stepped closer, his breath fluttering and his nerves strung taut, fraught with a delicious tension ready to snap at any indication his touch would be welcome. 

“Aziraphale,” he all but moaned. He opened and shut his hands on air, clenched his toes at the chilly but luxurious flooring in his kitchen. 

“May I hold you?” Aziraphale asked, much to Crowley's pleasure. Crowley immediately spread one palm over Aziraphale's heart as if he could make contact with it and draw forth everything Aziraphale feared making known. 

“Yeah, yeah, _of course_ you can touch me. I want you to,” he reassured eagerly but puzzled. How was Aziraphale still uncertain when Crowley was practically salivating at his feet? “You don't have to ask!”

Aziraphale dipped his head in acknowledgment but didn't quite reach out. “Oh, my dear, but I do at times. I think...” he hesitated, and Crowley fidgeted with a button on Aziraphale's dress shirt. “I think you're so used to others manhandling you, grabbing at you, touching whenever they feel like, you've forgotten you're allowed to have boundaries.” His eyes flicked up through lowered lashes to meet Crowley's, somehow demure and wanton at the same time. “You deserve to be asked, you see.”

“But...” Crowley could actually feel the furrowed lines appear upon his forehead in his confusion. “I want you to feel as though you're allowed to touch me when you want,” he repeated. “Everybody else, does. I'm practically asking for it. Why wouldn't I let my own...,” he swallowed and the spiraling emotion in his chest pushed him just enough over the line for his words to spill out as, “my own boyfriend?” 

Even more puzzling, Aziraphale only smiled gently, sweetly, _angelically_ Crowley thought as he watched him tilt his head to the side and nearly glow from within in fondness. 

“And I'm grateful for your trust,” Aziraphale reassured, “But indulge me as a continue to respect your mind and body.”

“All right,” he agreed. He thought it odd the one person he did want pawing at him seemed to be the only one who felt like they needed permission. Perhaps it was because Aziraphale wasn't used to the industry; Aziraphale must not realize people in Crowley's line of work deserved what they got half the time because they dangled themselves out there like a ripe fruit. He didn't _like_ it, of course, and Gabriel had made him increasingly uncomfortable recently, but that's how it went, right? 

“For the record, when we're alone, after a date that's gone pretty good with only a few bumps. You could have me any way you want,” he tried to reassure. “but we don't have to do anything,” he added carefully. And urgently, he thought, because he wanted, no he _needed_ Aziraphale to know he was welcome at whatever speed he wanted to move. 

“What I'd like to do,” Aziraphale began, stepping away from Crowley so he'd backed himself into the countertop perpendicular to where the sink was located, “is kiss you rather thoroughly. If you don't mind.” 

“Guhyeah. Urk. I- mmmhmmm,” Crowley babbled. He'd worried very briefly when Aziraphale moved _away_ and not closer to him, but his very particular little angel, of course he wouldn't want his clothing soaked through even worse by leaning against the sink, and _of course_ he'd positioned himself invitingly at the far counter so Crowley would come to him rather than the opposite. Maybe he needed the support for balance, maybe he just wanted to feel pressed between Crowley and a surface; Crowley didn't care.

He crossed the room and slipped one arm around Aziraphale's back and one hand deep within Aziraphale's utterly haywire curls. Their lips met, lush and breathtaking. Crowley gave in to instinct and pressed in, rolling his hips loose and sensuous against the voluptuous softness at Aziraphale's belly. He splayed his long legs some to fit against Aziraphale's shorter stature, and it was _that_ which drew forth an endearing sigh from Aziraphale, light and accompanied by a shuddered relief as if he'd been holding himself back. 

Crowley caught Aziraphale's lip between his teeth and released so he could hiss, “Yes, my pretty angel, give me only what your ready to share, because you know I'll take everything you offer.” He tucked his nose so it fit against Aziraphale's soft jawline. “I'm so fucking greedy, you know what that's like, I saw you with the caramel a while back.” 

Wordless other than a nearly imperceptible whine, Aziraphale canted his own hips in a seeking arch as if unable to help himself wherever his hips met Crowley's long body, made more difficult by their height difference and how Crowley had dipped low, legs spread in order to nibble at a tempting curve of skin beneath Aziraphale's ear. 

“I'm too short for this, for you. We don't fit together well,” Aziraphale whispered with soft laughter edged with something a little desperate. Crowley never wanted to hear a trace of doubt in his words again, even over legitimate but minor obstacles. 

On a whim, he leaned away just enough to create a small space and bent his knees so he might easily scoop both hands right beneath Aziraphale's very enticing bottom. “Don't be ridiculous,” Crowley murmured, committed now into showing him how it was an unacceptable notion. 

“What are you-,” Aziraphale gasped out against Crowley's neck, blinking rapidly and digging his fingers into where they'd been skimming the ticklish skin beneath Crowley's T-shirt. “Oh dear Lord, I'm much too heavy for you to-” 

“Naaahhh,” Crowley grunted out, lifting him in one great heave. He rode out the high from his brilliant idea, pleased with himself and in need of meeting Aziraphale's addicting lips again and again. Aziraphale made a soft sound as he regained his balance atop the counter and groaned breathy in a way that jolted Cowley like a shock to the pelvis when Crowley stepped between his spread thighs. Aziraphale clenched his legs around Crowley for stability, effectively cradling him within. 

“Not too heavy,” Crowley insisted low between steamy-wet kisses, “Absolutely perfect, my angel, feel how well you fit around me,” he panted against Aziraphale's lips, swollen now from how unrestrained Crowley attended to them. He curled his arms tighter as if he could pull Aziraphale _into_ him, but that'd have to wait for sure, that ideal closeness of one of them inside the other in any possible configuration Crowley might imagine. 

And he contained a great wealth of ideas and experiences he wanted to share, to give Aziraphale and discover all the best ways to draw forth delicious sounds. He settled for pushing his tongue into that clever mouth, stroking warm and languid. He reveled in how he sensed just the barest suggestion of hardness with Aziraphale's hips bucking against him, restrained but clearly evident and needy. It became even more apparent when Aziraphale tightened his thighs and arms further as if he wanted to crawl into Crowley's body. 

They were edging on a little too hot and heavy when a distant thump seemed to shake Aziraphale from his luststruck haziness. He stiffened some and drew back, but only enough to touch the tip of his tongue to where Crowley's jawbone curved sharp up toward his ear. “Whoops,” he breathed against the skin there. Crowley could feel the abashed smile and burned to have their bare skin slide against each other in a need for even more. 

But they did need to back off; he didn't want to push, tempt Aziraphale into too much, too fast, blinded by their inarguable chemistry with each other while in the heat of it all only to regret later. And his boys, right down the hall- that thought could cool any of the more sordid fantasies Crowley wanted to play out. 

He slid his hand down Aziraphale's spine over the smoothness of his dress shirt and couldn't resist one final firm press of his palm flat on the inviting roundness of Aziraphale's ass where it curved to meet the countertop. A curious, misshapen lump of something was stuffed into his pocket.

“What's this?” he whispered, mouthing Aziraphale's neck in the process and concluding with a light nip of the skin there. 

“Wha-” he answered, still breathless and lost into it, Crowley was happy to note. 

“Pocket,” he murmured and pointedly squeezed the bit of plush bottom beneath his hand. 

“Oh, it's my...my rope.” Aziraphale words were whispered in Crowley's ear so softly he nearly missed them. After a moment of processing, Crowley leaned back so his earlobe slipped from Aziraphale's mouth. 

“Your rope?” He heard the mirth in his own voice but attempted to hide the teasing smile that wanted to curl his lips with humor. Aziraphale's dreamy expression shifted from kiss-addled to half-lidded contentment to curiosity over why Crowley pulled away. 

Crowley patted Aziraphale's pocket again and slipped his fingertips within to draw out exactly what Aziraphale had mentioned- a length of white rope gathered together in a messy loop. He dangled his discovery along side where their bodies touched. “Were you planning to make off with me,” he teased. 

“Your mind's a naughty place, you wicked rapscallion,” Aziraphale said, but he did so coyly, with his chin dipped low so his breath brushed the tender skin near Crowley's collar bones. 

“Rapscallion,” he repeated, quite chuffed by the description. “But I gotta know now,” he hinted as he reluctantly drew back. 

Thankfully, Aziraphale's expression was open and revealed no regret. He did, however, slide from the counter to land onto his feet, back to a position where the crown of his head fit rather comfortably beneath Crowley's chin. 

“Give it here, and I'll show you,” he asked, though he pressed his cheek right to Crowley's sternum first so that Crowley couldn't help wrapping his arms around him again. 

“You don't have to,” Crowley said softly, still curious but not wanting to push now that he knew the rope wasn't a random item stuffed unthinkingly into his pocket and forgotten. 

“It's just a habit now, really. Come sit with me.” He slipped away from his spot tucked between Crowley and the countertop to settle in one of the chairs near the dining area. 

Bemused, Crowley joined him by straddling another chair and leaning over the back so his arms hooked comfortably and his legs sprawled outward. He watched as Aziraphale wiggled in his seat and tried only halfheartedly to nix an image of Aziraphale doing the same with his rounded body bare and astride Crowley's currently half-hard cock. Fuck, he needed to dredge his mind from the gutter. He adjusted himself so he wasn't pressed so uncomfortably tight to the wood columns of the chair back, but the sight of Aziraphale's fingers nimbly manipulating the rope didn't help. 

“...that actually helped in fine motor recovery for my occupational therapy,” Aziraphale was saying when Crowley was able to pay attention again. “I found it so soothing, I kept up with it. There's actually an International Guild of Knot Tyers I've looked at a bit. But I'm more of an anxious fiddler,” he admitted wryly. “You might stumble upon evidence of my nervous work around the shop,” he explained while doing something with the rope that ended in a recognizable bow. His cheeks were already nicely pink from what he and Crowley'd just done, but they flushed even brighter when Aziraphale met Crowley's eyes with a glance that seemed to seek approval or, less of a happy thought, expected mocking. 

“Sounds like it helps,” Crowley offered, but he felt somewhat transfixed by the sight of Aziraphale's finely manicured nails and soft fingertips manipulating the length of rope. All the lightly teasing remarks he'd considered using faded on his tongue. “What's it made of?” His voice sounded rough in his ears. 

Aziraphale's relieved expression was free of his previous uncertainty. He untangled the knot and readied to demonstrate a second. “This is just a two-ply white bamboo silk rope.” He stroked his index and middle finger over it's length in a move that appeared far too erotic to Crowley's lecherous mind; he couldn't resist staring, there was just _something_ about seeing Aziraphale's hands sure and steady on it. There had to be a fucked up, depraved circuit in Crowley's mind to find something undeniably sexy about Aziraphale's goddamn therapy. 

“I liked how soft it was when I found it at a reenactment event a few summers ago,” Aziraphale was saying. “This is a Mathew Walker knot, silly name, I know, but it's meant to stop fraying in a decorative fashion.” 

“Decorative,” Crowley echoed, glancing up to admire Aziraphale's eyes focused in concentration before watching his fingers work. He reached to rest his own index finger atop the knot between Aziraphale's hands, and being only himself, leisurely stroked along the agreeably smooth roping until he met Aziraphale's skin. He continued the light touch and and felt himself heat up when Aziraphale's breath hitched. 

“So that's a Walker, not particularly useful unless you've cut your rope and want to be fancy about it,” he said breathlessly as Crowley continued skimming his fingertips, glancing between the rope and Aziraphale's mouth and eyes in satisfaction at what he found there in Aziraphale's response. The parted lips and dilated pupils pleased him very much, he found. Crowley's casual posture eased into more of an open and sensual lazy thing, so affected he felt his pulse throb with awareness right down to his toes. 

“Show me more,” he demanded huskily and punctuated it by curling his fingers around Aziraphale's possessively. “This is something that helps you, it's part of you, and I want to know everything about you.” He hoped he didn't sound too needy, too wanting. But he burned for Aziraphale to understand Crowley wanted every bit of him, even the parts he seemed to think were undesirable flaws scarring him from his accident. He recalled how Aziraphale had handed him his pile of books all knotted together and realized he'd only grazed the surface back then. He wanted to dive into the whole pool. 

Aziraphale's smile flickered and then settled as if he'd come to a decision. He wiggled again, a nervous twitch, Crowley thought, but he went ahead and undid the current knot. Crowley settled his arms onto his chairback and popped his chin so he could just watch in a way he hoped Aziraphale wouldn't think of as creepy. 

“Of course, dearest. So this is a lariat loop, not to be confused with a honda knot,” he described, plump fingers nimble on the rope in an confusing twist, to Crowley anyhow, that somehow resulted in a circle. “Used- well, as a cowhand lasso, of course. So many of these have their roots in either agriculture or nautical roping.” He undid that one as well. “And this one is known by quite a few names. I learned it as Karash double loop, but I've seen it called other things. Anathema says she can tell when I'm worrying at something because she'll find this bit all over the shop.”

Crowley soaked in Aziraphale's narrative patter and could see him visibly soften as he went on, showing him this or that knot or loop, some appearing the same to his own untrained eyes. But still, to see him so comfortable, so absorbed thrilled something deep within. 

“And for this one,” Aziraphale said, “I don't-” he glanced around the dining room and into the adjoining kitchen. “well, if you wouldn't mind propping your elbows together just so, yes, and then touch your wrists...” 

Crowley allowed him to manipulate his arms so that they rested upright on the chair back, elbows bent slightly inward so the sides of his pinky fingers and open palms were flush with each other. His knuckles faced Aziraphale and he wiggled his fingertips playfully as they curled toward his own likely amused face. “Like this?” he asked, tilting his head so Aziraphale could share in his humored smirk around his poised forearms. 

“A bit further apart, you wily thing.” He began drawing the rope around and between Crowley's wrists, bringing parts of it's length to encircle his forearms, prattling all along over the texture and precision required for this tie. There was something different about this, Crowley thought, something more _intimate_ over being involved rather than just watching. His musings became somewhat muzzy as Aziraphale's hands moved confidently and the bamboo silk pressed into Crowley's skin at a comfortable but noticeable tightness. 

“Oh,” Crowley said beneath his breath as he watched the almost hypnotic looping and the delicate movements of Aziraphale's fingers. The rope barely scratched; the silk featured just enough texture to really draw his focus. The tension felt delicious and soon became all he seemed to be able to concentrate on. 

“You might need to lash something together with this double-column tie, and steady it with this wrap,” Aziraphale said softly, but his voice became a direct whisper straight into Crowley's mind, soothing and slick as word turned satin and liquid to slowly seep into his brain and dampen any frantic thoughts. 

The rope rested even and comforting and just enough to edge on painful without going there. Instead, he felt wrapped and coddled and as if Aziraphale was twining himself around his arms serpent-like to keep him safe. Aziraphale was still speaking, logically Crowley knew it because he saw those kiss-reddened lips moving, the flash of white teeth, but all he could do is stare, dazed, into his eyes as sound seemed to muffle and each breath became something he was aware of, something he could feel with every inhale and every soft exhale through his parted lips.

He couldn't blink and found no desire to move, only noticing the hardness of the surface beneath him and the wood slats against his stomach, the strain in his thighs as he straddled the chair, the press of his bony elbows into the edge of wood. His soft T-shirt and tight jeans even took on a friction of their own, restricting in the wrong way, he decided. He wanted out of them, wanted only to feel Aziraphale's fingers brushing soft at his skin between measured loops and knots upon his entire body, and the rope itself, soothing and cradling.

What would it feel like to experience the kiss of Aziraphale's warm palms all over, protective and assured, perhaps working the focus of the knots hitting just so and the pressure of the ropes somehow keeping Crowley's wilder thoughts and poor judgments contained? He drifted, studying the flecks of green and hazel buried within Aziraphale's blue eyes, the curl of his lashes, the plumpness of his cheeks just below-

“Crowley... Crowley?” 

Crowley blinked and licked at dry lips. His heartbeat seemed to have settled into a soft flutter and he felt melted into the chair, like softened butter. “Hmmm?” he hummed out, content and sleepy. 

“Crowley?” Aziraphale said again, a note in his voice that piqued Crowley's interest. His mellowness remained but he somehow pulled his attention from his intense study of Aziraphale's eyes in order to admire the contrast between his pale flesh and the smoothness of the bamboo rope encircling his wrists and forearms. 

“Yeah, angel?” he murmured, somehow a grand effort. 

“I'm going to unwrap you now, all right?” His voice was light and delicate in Crowley's ears. He wanted to remain in this pliant, floaty state, perhaps even deeper so, and allow Aziraphale to do anything he wished with his body, take possession of his whole self with his fingers and ropes and little knots he seem to consider as being evidence of his previous flaws when clearly this was a superpower. He decided to tell him so. 

Aziraphale only giggled nervously. It felt like bells in Crowley's ears. 

Soon enough, the rope slackened and was sliding away to be wound up and stuffed back into Aziraphale's pocket. He was rubbing light circles into Crowley's wrists and arms, pleasant and warm, his fingers deceptively strong. “So that was...um. Some things I've taught myself. I hadn't expected. Well, I suppose there are other- _avenues_ one might take this hobby I hadn't considered. Until right now. With you.” He words sounded unsteady but thoughtful, as if he were working something out aloud rather than deep in his mind. 

Crowley slumped in his chair, relaxed and content and unable to pull his eyes away from Aziraphale's babbled stream of thought. Aziraphale was so bright. So beautiful. He was sitting in Crowley's home, worried Crowley was already bored of him when he hadn't a clue how deep he'd already insinuated into Crowley's very essence. Crowley would build a wall around him, a fort thingie, and never allow a thing to hurt him if he had his way. 

The way Aziraphale whispered, “Oh Crowley,” and made soothing motions over the soft skin at his wrists beneath the swell of his palm at the base of his thumb was _wonderful_. He felt loved and cared for, even if Aziraphale wasn't ready to articulate such things. But it did seem like he was waiting for Crowley to speak. 

“Hi,” he said. He was positive the expression on his face was entirely sappy. He didn't care. All his nervousness and all his flustered and frankly horny energy had settled into a background hum of contentedness. 

"Crowley,” Aziraphale answered. It seemed to be the only thing he was capable of at the moment. He released Crowley's wrist and stared down at his own fingers until he met Crowley's gaze again, wide eyed. 

“Aziraphale.” Crowley murmured the name more provocatively than he'd intended, but it seemed as though his mouth was on autopilot for the time being as he continued to bask in this moment of absent tension. He folded his arms over the back of his chair and tilted his head to rest his chin and cheek there. His gaze never left Aziraphale's face. 

“Hi,” Aziraphale finally whispered, clearly giving in to the absurdity of it all. 

There was something solid here, something he'd begun to notice earlier that evening that'd just grown stronger. Beneath their anxious flirting and the shared meals and the little surprising jewels of learning to know each other, this feeling unearthed itself so very slowly and offered itself out so vulnerably over the weeks of knowing each other. 

Crowley wanted to pledge himself to Aziraphale. He wanted to lock him away and parade him in front of everyone and God at the same time. He wanted to wrap his own thin and lanky arms and legs around Aziraphale's delightful, sinfully curvy body and beg him to love him back, that they'd take care of each other, how they'd be perfect for each other in spite of all their differences. That together, they could withstand all the complications the universe might throw at them. It bubbled up in his chest and slithered into his toes and fingers and along his tongue, but he _knew_ he had to keep it to himself a little longer, knew he'd need to work to eliminate every doubt in Aziraphale's mind. 

But oh sweet love, he thought fuzzily, caught up in their mutual stare, it would be so worth it. 

He held one hand outward, palm facing Aziraphale, and went giddy with joy when no explanation was necessary for Aziraphale to catch on and press his hand against Crowley's. 

“Angel, mine,” he breathed into the space between them and all was well. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mild CW: Crowley's thought processes on deserving non-con touching or sexual harassment are WRONG and a result of an environment fraught with various systemic abuses. He's been told to absorb this all, that it's 'how it is' by both his own superiors and by other models in the industry. Parts of him know it's wrong, but he's been told both that it's not good to rock the boat and that you are asking for it/deserve it when you choose this path. This is *not true*. Anyone, any career, including sex worker, are allowed to be free of harassment and free of unwanted sexual advances. 
> 
> I'm in no way an authority, (I have an unfinished history major, after all) but I did a ton of research with documentaries and articles and books. Like other career paths, Modeling deals with sexual assault, power dynamics, threats, body image abuse, emotional abuse. Unlike some career paths (not to dismiss anything from people suffering in these other careers) modeling often requires body exposure, nudity/partial nudity/fittings over nudity and underage participants. And there are outspoken people who might be upset at harassment in other career areas who _still_ think a model is asking for it because they chose this path. It's a lot to deal with. 
> 
> *
> 
> This is the first chapter Crowley calls Aziraphale love, and its a slip of the tongue but STILL. I only reread this two weeks ago after I got all the edits back and forgot it was there! 
> 
> Aziraphale's 2 ply rope isn't recommended for any sort of actual bondage play. But he doesn't know that yet ;). He doesn't even really know what he's just stumbled upon. 
> 
> Leo horoscope for aug 2 2020 from astrology . com. I lucked out in having two current 'scopes in a row which fit future plot points for the characters with those sun signs. 
> 
> I make no predictions on when I will be posing again. August will be a crap shoot with moving and whatever the kids' schools end up doing so I can figure out a work schedule around it. Fall is busy time for hubs with incoming grain. I do most my work offline though, so that helps.


	25. Interlude 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, thank you so much for all your interesting comments and the kudos after posting those last two chapters. I was unable to really access the internet for quite a while and just cannot answer comments on my phone without it becoming a mess. I appreciate every single one and hope to get to them. 
> 
> My laptop completely ate itself after the move and basically returned to factory settings. It meant I had to redo this particular chapter's edits, though the entire thing was still in my emails. And all my digital notes are gone, but my hand notes are here. I lost all my docs, all my pictures,all my recipes, all my music! And I'm back to windows 8. Now I'm writing on Google docs from now on instead of the downloaded open office and using the AO3 script to post. I know better than to not back up, but I got lazy. Don't be lazy like me! I took 4 days to wait to post because I couldn't find Lucifer's first husband's name in my notes anywhere and was determined to find it. So now it's vague. 
> 
> very small CW of Gabriel being gross to Crowley. But this chapter is pretty much a plot mover all in Michael's POV, the second of 4. Don't know if I'd write that way again, but it is what it is. Also, there's now getting year between my first draft and this one, so sometimes I'm surprised at things. Like WHY a small part of this chapter is the MOST BORING thing I've probably ever included in fiction- a board meeting full of the most awful corporate speak I could find. I think I thought it was funny at the time because there's a corporate speak Weird-Al song. 
> 
> Also, as in my tags, Everyone's a dumpster fire at times except the children. I love them all. Maybe not this version of Gabriel. F him.

_Horoscope for Leo- It's time to take a bold step forward, Leo. Have confidence in yourself and all the careful planning you've been painstakingly doing for the past few months. Realize that much of this hard work is paying off, but only if you're willing to take the next step. The opportunity is there. All you need to do is jump on it. Act out of faith and confidence instead of fear and restriction._

_Wednesday, 6th of March 2019_

There was a decadence in taking a day off mid-week for a mani-pedi, cut and color. Michael's regular place was far the fuck away from anything associated with Celestial Bodies, and she liked it that way. Just to be, just to relax- well, she never did allow herself to relax, she thought as she parked Lucifer's Jag XE SV outside of Crowley’s building, the less showy 'family' sedan he often toted the boys around in. 

Even her Wednesday off circled around Lucifer, Crowley, the boys. The damned agency, where she had so many strings in play she spent her entire morning yoga session unraveling them in her mind rather than finding shanti in mind, body, and soul. 

She breezed past the doorman, his nod and “Miss Archangel,” abandoned in her trail as she approached the private lift and punched in the code. Her mobile vibrated. She ignored it as she had all morning. It'd be Gabriel. Or Uriel. Or any one of the hundreds of connections she'd forged in the name of Celestial Bodies Modeling Agency or Lucifer DeVil.

If she cashed in all her assets and slipped away in the night, would the entire network she stabilized come crumbling down, or would it power onward without missing her? 

She'd never. Could she ignore the pleading, ashamed eyes of models and staff wanting but fearing for her to step in when an agent or production staff got a bit handsy? Leave Lucifer fumbling along after over twenty years of being 'his rock' or whatever drivel he spewed at her while making the most utterly boneheaded decisions when left to his own devices? The man was a business major, for Christ's sake; he couldn't interpret a horoscope for himself properly even if it was written as an instruction manual rather than poetic gobbledygook people trusted their _lives_ with. 

And. She pursed her lips together, Flamingo Pink hue disappearing into a tense line. 

The boys. She let herself into the penthouse through the security door and made an appraisal of the main sitting room. Crowley glanced over the laptop balanced on his bare stomach and waved as he lounged in some sort of contorted but apparently comfortable configuration on an armchair. Warlock played a video game across the room. 

“Hey Michael! I have to beat this monster first, is that okay?” Warlock glanced away from the screen briefly and grinned at her. 

“Make it quick,” was all she could say, her thoughts still knotted over Lucifer, over Crowley, over their boys she’d allow to trample her barriers. She'd held Warlock not long after Lilith's c-section. All wobbly and blue eyed and fuzzy dark hair while Lucifer whispered a stream of praise over his Gemini cusp of Cancer qualities. She thought she'd be in the way, but Lucifer practically demanded her presence. 

Amazing how her chest swelled with an embarrassing amount of similar pride years later during ultrasound scans for Adam, the IUI taking easily and both Lucifer and Crowley hovering at her side in the darkened room. And maybe it was a little unfair, but a part of her she was ashamed of did thrill a little when it became apparent as Adam grew it'd been Lucifer's seed that took rather than Crowley's. While the reproductive specialists purposely inseminated with a blend, it seemed very obvious to all Adam had Lucifer's brassy blond hair and dark brown eyes. His attitude, though, was all Crowley. 

Lord, she wanted to hate Crowley. Twenty and catching Lucifer's eye in ways Michael never could. Slipping into their little trio as his first two partners hadn't. But he really was a disgustingly good man as much as he might deny it. When she offered to surrogate in the first place, it was the most unplanned and sentimental move she'd made in her life. She couldn't help her need to see Lucifer happy. With him so invested in his marriage and in Crowley, and she so wrapped up in Lucifer, the desire to be this person for them spilled from somewhere deep inside. 

She wanted to despise Crowley in her envy, but in the delivery room, when the nurse removed the baby from Michael's arms, Crowley praised her, thanked her, nearly begged her to understand she was always welcome to remain in Adam's life. Crowley was enraptured with newborn Adam, even more so than Lucifer had ever been with infant Warlock. And Lucifer was splitting his adoring gaze between she and Crowley like he had everything he'd ever wanted. It made her feel...strange. 

Crowley managed to gracefully rise from his chair while her mind wandered and left his open laptop on the coffee table. He yawned, stretched, and scratched behind his neck while blinking at Michael from behind a flop of hair. 

“Ssssorry. Down a rabbit-hole into something.” His sharp cheekbones flushed up with enough redness to pique Michael's curiosity. “Lemme get the med paperwork Luce won't shut up about.” He swiveled to Warlock, nearly all hip, and grumbled, “You said you had a 'save point' a while ago. Let's go, Kid before your father gets antsy. And I'm sure Michael's got things to do besides cart your bottom to Chelsea.” He flashed a feeble smile to Michael. “I wish you would've told me he asked you to do this on your day off. I'd've taken them over.” He didn't seem pleased by the thought. 

“Oh and pass up the Jag?” she said lightly. There was no point in anything else. They both knew she'd never say no. 

“Okay.” His words sounded doubtful as he left the room toward what Michael knew was his office. “He's been a pillock lately, you know,” drifted from the hall. 

“Noted.” Going on two years from The Divorce, and it still seemed surreal. How could Crowley walk away from Lucifer DeVil, as difficult as it had been and as many times as he seemed to be snagged back beneath Lucifer's spell? Was it truly permanent this time? 

Weren't the Demon and the Morningstar meant to be the fairytale? Hadn't she stuffed her aching chest with enough anesthetic to push through the entertainment reporters and peers who admired Lucifer's third marriage and gorgeous husband and mused to Michael over _how happy_ she must be for her best friend, how clearly the third time really was the charm? How selfless an act it was a year later they said it was to offer herself as a surrogate for her dear friend? They didn't know the origin of her impulse was a wish to see Lucifer's beautiful eyes light up in admiration for her, with love. But it would never be the sort of love he offered so easily to lithe, sexy men and women of international fame. Why would he? She had his friendship, she'd given this piece of her to him to satisfy something in her soul. 

That little piece of her was pulling on her leg now for attention. “I no finish wit my bag, Mika!” he said, his frown wobbling as if he feared disappointing her. 

She summoned a brief smile for him. “So go finish it!” She gave in and ran her fingers through his curls. 

“Ima sord fighter! Need my sord! I binging it to udder house!” He swung his arms and skipped back toward his room, fighting imaginary opponents. 

“Warlock,” she reminded. He was standing now, nearly hopping up and down as he battled something. 

“Like two seconds,” he blurted. 

She rolled her eyes and caught sight of the open laptop still sitting on the coffee table. Crowley was embarrassed of something. She probably _should_ look, the habit of keeping an eye on him for Lucifer still installed. She drifted that way, casual. No sounds from down the hallway. Warlock irritatingly occupied. 

Rather than his sneaky little astronomy hobby-sites or something a tad salacious, the visible tab was open on an old news blurb and B&W photograph of a group of people posing with a trophy with the caption: _“Exeter Fencing Society takes first in tournament.”_ Her curiosity drawn, she snuck a glance at Warlock and clicked another tab.

Seemingly unrelated, this one featured from _The Guardian_ about publishing newcomer Anathema Device accepting an award for women entrepreneurs with three individuals standing at her side. Michael scanned the article, interested in spite of herself; this was the gatekeeper to Agnes Nutter, and Lucifer's most ardent dream in life beyond his desire for a sitcom ideal family was to drench himself in Nutter's elusive presence. 

_Device is an heiress of a vast fortune from investment in the fledgling Apple. Seeing an opportunity, she invested in her own presses to start her own publishing company focusing on astrology and conspiracy. An unusual and narrow focus, some might say, but Device has the fortune of landing upon the most respected and reclusive astrologist of our ages. Her holdings are the exclusive home to the internationally renowned Agnes Nutter, author of multiple bestselling books and syndicated Nice and Accurate Horoscopes worldwide. No one has ever seen nor had the fortune of audio interview of Agnes, leaving some to speculate “Agnes” is the result of a group thinktank or Anathema herself. Others believe Nutter has isolated herself from the world to preserve the purity of her work. Whatever the truth, Device has discovered an icon and fully deserves our congratulations as our 2014 recipient of this award._

She wondered with some swirling in her stomach if Crowley was feeling nostalgic for Lucifer, for Lucifer’s obsession with astrology in spite of his frequent protests. Perhaps the pull of Lucifer truly was still intact and there were second thoughts? Quickly, she shifted to the third tab open, a completely unrelated article dated back years ago about a fatal accident and subsequent legal awarding of funds for the still hospitalized surviving client, Aziraphale Fell. The grainy photo of an unassuming pale young man in a dated suit even for that long ago appeared near the text. He seemed familiar to Michael though, both the name and the face. Why? She clicked back to the previous tab. 

“Whatchya lookin' at on Pop's computer?” Warlock said from somewhere near her elbow, startling enough for her to bobble the laptop she'd pulled onto her knees. 

What an absolute fool she'd been! How could she lose focus like this? Some master at stealth. She glanced up at Warlock, apology in her gaze. “I just-” she began. 

“OH!” Warlock said, glancing at the screen, clearly uninterested in any further suspicion. He was grinning now, attention off of her and onto the content. 

Bless young kids and their erratic focus, Michael thought as she replaced the laptop. “What?” 

“That guy standing by the lady is Pop's boyfriend. He looks like that now still! I'm pretty sure he's friends with this famous lady.” He poked toward the grainy scanned newspaper photo at the man with a bright smile. Enormous glasses dominated his rounded face as he stood near Device. “She gave him a bunch of magazines for us he brought with him the other day with alotta cool stuff. Did you know nuclear technology will end us all if we keep on using it? Wicked, I think!” 

Michael realized she'd sunk into the chair and scrambled to her feet, barely listening. Aziraphale Fell, the caption read. A. Z. Fell. The SoHo bookshop she'd sourced for Lucifer ages ago when he wouldn't shut up about how proper make-up aligned with the angle of the constellations or some such rubbish.

 _He_ was the ‘good thing not Lucifer’ mentioned in Brussels? The one she'd overheard Crowley speaking to on his mobile in the recent past? He'd been _here_ and met the boys? Just Crowley and this man Lucifer once called the ‘bookangel’ at NYFW? Did Lucifer know he was still around? Was Crowley finally drifting away from Lucifer? Replacing them all with this unknown man when he'd never really been serious about his dalliances prior? That couldn't be right. A wave of over-possessive concern overtook her while she stared absently at Warlock stuffing games into his backpack. She scrambled to box it up inside as Crowley entered the room with a manila envelope. 

“I could scan these on my mobile and send them to him. Their summer camp deposit doesn't need the originals, you know,” he was saying while waving the envelope in her face. “Helloooo, Michael?” 

When she met his eyes, he was watching her with a playful smile. 

“You okay there?” he asked, holding it out for her. 

“Not sure,” she murmured, her eyes on Adam as he emerged from the hallway toting a stuffed animal. 

“Ready to go, Mika?” he chirped. He grinned at her in the spitting image of Lucifer DeVil, and she pushed herself to shut down all her thoughts for now. 

*

She would mention it to Lucifer when dropping off the boys, either subtly or bluntly depending on his mood. Then she would put aside his answer and any accompanying histrionics and leave to enjoy the remainder of her day off before the work-intensive weekend. 

That was the plan. When she arrived at the Chelsea house though, boys running ahead, she had to wander the space until catching sight of Lucifer, flat on his back and sprawled out like a starfish. For a short moment, her throat seized up horribly. 

Then he moaned, epically dramatic and distraught, and rolled his head across the plush carpeting. He cracked open his eyes a slit and sighed heavily. 

Warlock strode right past him and mumbled, “Hey, Father.”

He stepped even faster when Lucifer said, voice raising in intensity as Warlock disappeared from view, “Mr. Cortese will be here in an hour! I've left _all your unfinished school work_ the poor man has issued to you on the table.” He groaned again, staring at the ceiling. “If you even care,” he added beneath his breath. 

“Fadder!” Adam threw his knapsack onto the nearby sofa and dropped to his knees to hug him while Michael watched with an unwanted frustration building. “I did sords an ate a cake n gots more books.” He plopped his weight onto Lucifer's chest, unconcerned of the 'ooof' sound Lucifer made or melodrama he'd been putting on. “Can I hava milk n apple?” 

“Go on,” Lucifer said softly, forgoing his woe for the moment. “But do keep the mess down. Nanny will be here for you in an hour.” When Adam squealed and bee-lined toward the kitchen, Lucifer sighed heavily and returned his forlorn gaze to a light fixture. “Quote,” he mumbled. “‘ _The storms of ruthless dispensation have struck my flowery garland numb, I live in lonely desolation and wonder when my end will come._ ’ Unquote.”

Michael simultaneously wanted to wrap her arms around him in comfort and kick him in the side with the pointy toe of her knock-off Louboutins. 

“Are you shitting me right now?” She spit, ignoring her confusing emotions as she was accustomed. “What the fresh hell is this?” 

Lucifer reached for her ankle and wrapped his long fingers tight to still her. “My love, it's all gone to hell. My Anthony is drifting away, my son sees me as a failure, my career trajectory is a snarled mess, our third musketeer has gone into uncomfortable places...” 

She shivered against her will as his thumb stroked against the jut of bone. His puppy-dog eyes met hers, and his lower lip thrust outward in a grand pout. “No one has endured such suffering as I have, my love,” he lamented. 

Rather than respond right away at this completely moronic display, Michael jerked her leg back and huffed a hot blast of air through her nose. “Crowley warned me you were behaving as a spoiled brat.” She gave in to an impulse and nudged her toe into his thigh. “I'm making you some tea. Your backside better be on the sofa when I return,” she bit out before strutting off toward the kitchen. 

The nerve of him! And sadly, it wasn't new. She attempted not to chastise her weakness at wanting to fix everything for him, smooth it down and comfort his childish misery. She would make his tea, yank his head from his arse so he saw to the boys properly, and _leave._ She nodded firmly to herself as she crossed the threshold from the hall to kitchen. 

Warlock met her near the kitchen island and gestured to a steaming cup of tea. “I figured you'd need this for him,” he mumbled, eyes on the still warm electric kettle. “It's just stupid Sainsbury’s Red Label.”

Michael froze. No ten year old boy, thrust into the spotlight or not, deserved to deal with this. Not Warlock, not anyone. Not her... not Warlock. She swallowed down everything she wanted to say and summoned a sheen of calmness. “He'll be lucky I don't dump this right onto his head,” she said carefully, watching for his response. 

Warlock fiddled with the spoon. “Is he very upset with me?” he whispered. “But only, I had to tell him he was being mean, right Michael?” He turned his eyes to her, so damn similar to Lucifer's confused, pleading own it punched her stomach. Fucking Lucifer. She was angry and disappointed and just so exhausted over it all. And _still_ she felt drawn to smooth over things. She briefly imagined her escape plan from earlier in the day and locked it back up. 

“No, Warlock. Sometimes, you need to confront people. Stop... stop allowing them to behave a certain way. Or they'll never change.” She didn't meet his gaze while speaking, her own off in the distance. But the way he threw himself at her side and hugged her tight caught her attention. 

“I love you,” he mumbled into her arm. “Tell Father I'm finishing my maths and Adam's got that workbook thingie with the shapes in it.” He slipped off, leaving her standing at the island, her throat tight. 

*

“I'm on the sofa,” Lucifer said mournfully when she returned to him, cup rattling in her hands. 

“Don't be a jackass,” she snarled. She thrust the cup at him and took a seat across the room. 

“Everyone I love despises me,” he whined but accepted the cup of tea from her and sighed contentedly into the steam. He almost appeared oblivious to the mess he'd caused. Almost. 

Something iced over in Michael's chest. Whether it was the hollow of her heart, whether it was the ever-present affection within her veins, she shuttered down every impulse for comfort she felt for this man. 

“You're making it difficult for us,” she said, and then finally she had steeled herself enough to meet his eyes. “I sort of want to punch you in the face right now on behalf of everyone who's ever thought to do so.” 

“I suppose I deserve that,” Lucifer muttered sullenly. “Everything I do is wrong lately. My existence is _horrible_.”

“Oh get over yourself,” she spit, anger bubbling over. “You have a fabulous life. You have had three. _Three_ celebrity relationships in the time I've known you that functioned at one point, no matter what came of them.” She leaned forward, livid now, nearly hissing. “You are the role model for those two young men in that room, and right now, I'm sorry, but one of them is behaving more maturely than you are. _He's the one_ that could be rolling on the floor, whinging like a fool rather than his damned man-child of a father!” 

“Michael!” Lucifer sounded utterly shocked, his tea forgotten upon the table as he lifted his hand to his forehead. His expressive face went pale. “My love, I...”

“Stop it!” Michael said, more fiercely than she expected it to come out. She jumped to her feet so the growing maelstrom within could channel into kinetic energy rather than become evident in her expression. Oh God, how her gut had seized, her voice gone scratchy. He was so damned beautiful in his misery and she wanted him and hated him and she was growing too emotional for the dependable, unflappable aura of Michael Archangel. “You might be a worldwide icon, you might be 'beloved by millions'. You might even have the excuse of your screwed up, abnormal childhood.” Her eyes couldn't help darting toward the general direction of the open hall leading to the kitchen where the boys hopefully were out of earshot. “Grow the fuck up before you screw them over too, Lucifer DeVil,” she choked out and flung the keys to the Jag for good measure. 

With that, she stormed toward the front entrance, in desperate need of her bath and a bottle of wine. 

*

_Thursday, 7th of March 2019_

_“We're just friends,” says bassist for mega rock band_ der Apflebum _Elias Braun about his infamous photo with possessive hands caught roaming over 'the Demon' Crowley's gorgeous glutes from last week. “We reconnected some, but his attentions are wrapped up somewhere else.” Well_ this _writer wishes she could be the sort of friends to catch a good handful of Anthony Crowley's pert bottom! But even I know I can't compete with The Morningstar._ byline Meghan Cooler, photograph submitted anonymously. 

Michael swiped the article closed on her tablet and returned her attention to the photoshoot before her. No need to act on it; a bit of pointless gossip that'd die away soon over a man she'd vetted for Crowley during their previous fling. She and Gabriel were hovering offside a smaller set located on Celestial property, studio F. Today featured a faux noir-era train set cobbled together rather impressively by Beatrice on short notice for Ettinger’s new line of briefcase. Crowley and Ligur Camaleao made eyes at each other as rival spies from across the aisle of mock benches while Ligur clutched the briefcase to his chest. The shoot was meant more as a visibility tool for Ligur's career than anything benefiting Crowley. She still noticed him preening in the trenchcoat and taking a selfie earlier. 

“Eric D. insists on having me pitch a sepia theme to the rep from Ettinger,” Gabriel whispered in her ear. “He's very pushy for a photographer,” he noted. 

She barely glanced away from the activity under the lights. “Do it,” she insisted. She pictured the image in her mind, and how striking their models would appear. 

“Are you sure-” 

“My advice, which you would be wise to take, is to follow an award winning photographer's suggestion,” she repeated, this time glancing to the side. His straight posture was softened by how his hands were stuffed into the pockets of his dove-gray bespoke suit. He must have selected an even darker shade of violet for his contacts; it lent an eeriness to his gaze in the focused lighting. 

She peered back at her tablet as it vibrated to notify her of an updated horoscope from whatever app Lucifer had installed at some point to provide Agnes Nutter's latest. Ugh. 

“Too much of Anthony is blocked by the railcar set,” Gabriel murmured. “His collarbones and jawline are exquisite in that ensamble and you can't even see them.” 

“This is Ligur's account,” Michael reminded. She followed Gabriel with her eyes as he stepped away and hovered just off camera from Crowley's side of the set. 

“Break for ten!” Beatrice shouted from where they stood at Eric D's shoulder. Michael made note of how smoothly they handled the minor account. Efficient and creative. Crowley had leaned on her to push Gabriel into giving Beelzebub of the legendary Hellset this opportunity, and after Brussels, she was convinced. They'd be an excellent addition to the anniversary team. 

Madame Tracy and Hastur's teams converged on Crowley and Ligur, Gabriel lingering near. Michael took the opportunity to check her mobile. The Ford account. Uriel confirming Friday. A ridiculous number of texts and voicemails from Lucifer. Other sorts of bullshit from bullshitters. unsolicited asks for interviews or contract work for model's under Gabriel's attention. She deleted everything but the items allowing her to intercede between the world and Gabriel. 

“Miss Archangel? May I speak with you?” 

Michael tipped her screen aside and turned to the fidgety woman- one of Tracy's assistants?- standing at her side. She waited silently and motionless. She found it either drove the meek away or immediately positioned her with the upper hand. With nearly everyone but Lucifer, she conceded to herself as the woman continued to dither. 

“I've heard it said to come to you over concerns with,” she paused, her eyes darting around like a frightened prey animal before she leaned inward and lowered her voice, “uncomfortable workplace issues.” 

“You?” Michael said softly, all facade of marble dropped. She hyper-focused on the woman, Heather, she now recalled, and guided her without contact toward a quiet corner away from the set. 

“No. But I mean, I'm there. Not that anyone notices us,” she said, sounding rueful. “It's about Mr. Crowley. And Ms. Bettie. And I'm not sure of his name, a newer contracted man. But.” She looked down again at her shoes and Michael allowed a brief encouraging smile. She wanted this woman to feel safe with her, to be willing, but not to feel forced. 

“It's not necessary to name-”

Heather's eyes narrowed and she nodded as if making an agreement with herself. “It's Mr. Celestial. He's _disgusting_ with some of the models. I've been working quite a bit with Mr. Crowley of late, and Mr. Celestial is bothering him terribly. But he’s also a bit that way with others.” Her tone conveyed both sorrow and determination, as if she couldn't help but want to intervene. But also, that she wanted to keep her job. Michael unabashedly understood this; she'd been collecting victim and observer stories for months now that she'd been made aware. 

They both turned to the set without discussion, likely with similar thoughts. Michael swept her attention over the scene before her. Eric D. fussing with his equipment, a young man, likely an intern, snapping to attention nearby. Beatrice in discussion with the client, somehow dominating the interaction while a good chunk shorter. Madame Tracy removing the shine to Ligur's forehead and clearly advising him over something as he reclined in a prep chair. And Hastur pacing, his tools of trade spread upon the table at his side, but the prep chair empty before him. 

“Where...” Michael said under her breath, irritation growing. 

“What should I do?” Heather asked, her voice a thin waver. 

“Go back to Tracy. Wait,” Michael said, still scanning the set. She extended one finger in Heather's direction. “If you're free, meet me at _Char House_ this Friday. I’ll text you the time. We’ll move from there to somewhere secluded to have a discussion on this topic. You may choose to make your statement anonymously or choose to be involved, but you'll need to sign a non-disclosure on what you hear and see,” she cautioned, now meeting Heather's eyes briefly. 

Heather nodded at her but Michael only caught a piece of it, now walking with intention toward where she'd zoned in on how Gabriel had cornered Crowley in a shadowy area of the studio near a support column. Her frustration derailed with an intrusive flashback of a younger, brash Gabriel, early twenties, with his hand up some sozzled young woman’s skirt as he pinned her to the wall at some Uni party. Michael had glimpsed it years ago with hazy, drunken eyes from across the overcrowded room at Lucifer's side while he held court to admirers. Michael had wondered if the young woman had been reluctant, leaning her head away while Gabriel slobbered at the curve of her neck. She had appeared to be pressing futilely at Gabriel's chest, but Michael had never been sure in the end. And besides, she'd been just as enraptured with Lucifer's attentions as the surrounding admirers, except with the privilege of arriving at his side. And Gabriel was just like all the other sought-after young men, handsome and wealthy and poised to inherit power. Didn't everyone want to be the focus of his attentions? 

Lord, she'd been stupid. 

“Get his highness back here, will ya?” Hastur barked at her as she passed. She ignored him, focused on her mission. Yes, she was once young and stupid, ignoring this sort of thing much like it seemed the world around her. 

No longer would Michael Archangel turn away her eyes. She would be a warrior for good.

Crowley's position against the column nearly superimposed itself upon Michael's unpleasant flashback from earlier, with Crowley's hand splayed flat at Gabriel's chest and his elbow locked straight similar to the young lady in her memories. He leaned backward against the column, teeth clenched in a snarl and face turned aside as Gabriel spoke into his ear. Gabriel's arm propped along the concrete so it rest at Crowley's head, fingertips in Crowley's hair. Thankfully, Crowley was layered in some era-accurate designer for this shoot. His knee-length trenchcoat swung open though, and Gabriel had squirmed a hand into the darkened space. 

As Michael neared, she noted how Crowley's other fist was clenched. His amber eyes flickered to her immediately, wide and urgent. For the first time, she wondered if his more gentle soul would snap and lead him to retaliate. 

Gabriel's stiffened shoulders acknowledged her arrival, but he made no effort to move. 

“Delaying the shoot, Gabriel?” she said, soft but acidic. “Hastur is waiting on him. She glared pointedly at where his hand clutched at Crowley's hip. “This appears inappropriate,” she remarked, keeping her words casual, factual, and devoid of the ferocious anger she endured. 

Gabriel only chuckled and took his time to slide away from where he'd enfolded himself in toward Crowley's body. “Don't worry your lovely head over it, Michael,” he soothed. “Crowley and I were only having a discussion over some recent propositions. I've taken some advice on how I need to stop being hesitant and be more insistent upon pushing Anthony here toward committing to the pursuit of some of my ideas.” 

“I've declined,” Crowley punctuated this with, his jaw tight as he pulled the sides of his coat together. “Don't touch my hair again on set, Gabriel,” he added before strutting to where Hastur impatiently waved his hands in the air. 

“Oh Hastur will have it tamed away in no time,” Gabriel said, this time to Michael, as if excusing his unwanted indulgence. His smile was stiff and his bearing only betraying his awareness of his own culpability to a keenly trained eye. 

Michael retained a very keenly trained eye and a wealth of remembered history. 

She tapped the side of her tablet, debating her approach. Careful. No cause for suspicion. They were _friends_ after all, and he was her direct superior. “I was under the impression you'd be running _propositions_ for the agency talent within your care through me prior to offering so as not to create conflict with other opportunities I have in works?” 

“I'd never cut you out, Michael,” Gabriel said very seriously, and in this he was sincere, still assured of her loyalty to their past. Off in the distance, she could hear the photoshoot pick up again, but she kept her attention fixed onto Gabriel. 

“It seems as though you have?” The words were intentionally baiting but drenched with innocence. 

He leaned against the pillar, casual, and stuffed his hands into his pockets with his index fingers poking outward. Self-incriminating tell number three for Gabriel Celestial. “These were more... personal suggestions. Image based. Public presentation. Nothing you need to worry about. Unless you have some information I'm unaware of over his relationship status with Lucifer? Or is there some weight to current tabloid fodder?” That was Gabriel's own hamfisted version of a leading question, blunt and obvious just like himself. 

Michael made a show of flipping her tablet cover open, humming, and said, “You have a meeting with reps from Michael Kors in two minutes.” 

“Shit,” he grumbled and flipped his wrist to an ostentatious watch. “Hold that thought.” He spun on his heel and moved away. 

Only then did Michael exhale. Her mobile vibrated for her attention. More texts and a message from Lucifer. She pocketed it. On her tablet, the little icon for _Nice and Accurate Online_ flashed at her again, insistent. “Oh for Christ's sake,” she muttered, tapping it. 

_Pisces! “This week it's important that you communicate your ideas and needs as clearly as possible. Say the difficult things in mentor and professional unions. The more you can do this, the sooner you can get back to normal. Meanwhile, your hopes and dreams could be a little fuzzy around the edges. Take some time to get focused about personal and financial goals. ”_ she rolled her eyes but hesitated to dismiss the app. Instead, she backtracked to the main page and selected scorpio for Gabriel on suspicion. 

_Scorpio! “You are willing to commit to a certain extent, but yet you are hesitant to commit all the way. Don't be. Now is the time to do something with great confidence. Either pursue this idea with everything you've got, or don't pursue it at all.”_

“Fabulous,” she muttered and nearly thumped her head back upon the concrete pillar before catching herself so as not to destroy her own coiffed hair. The only thing worse than a soft-hearted, pigheaded fool who intensely and wholeheartedly believed every word Agnes Nutter wrote was a self-serving fool happy to contort her horoscopes into whatever suited their sordid agenda.Gabriel seemed to be pro at twisting Nutter’s words. 

She wondered if it would dry out her skin too aggressively if she skipped out early for another bubble bath. She glanced across the studio to where Crowley and Ligur were feigning some sort of erotically charged fight over the briefcase for the camera to Eric D.’s over-eager coaxing. Instead, she disciplined herself to a composed aura of calmness and control- but still booked a late-appointment massage while on the way to meet Gabriel. 

_Friday, the 8th of March, 2019_

Only ten in the morning and on her fourth meeting of the day, Michael regretted skipping her espresso to rely on aspirin for her headache. The lack of sleep, perhaps. The asinine amount of texts and messages from Lucifer, all unread because just looking at them dug at the yawning pit of achiness in her stomach. The quick text exchange this morning she did respond to:

_Of course I'm not upset with you, Warlock. I'll see you this weekend. V. Busy and just needed a few days from your father._

His response seemed understanding, if understanding for a child comprised twenty-four little i-phone animal icons. 

She couldn't remember the last time she'd been in London and not spent time with the boys for such a gap. Emotionally compromised by even more DeVils. Quelle surprise. 

“Industry KPIs are in flux, particularly on the continent.”

“But as a rep of the B.O.D. For Celestial Bodies Modeling Agency, if we aren't driving stakeholder alignment, any speculative longterm goals are untrustworthy.” 

Michael was always aware, but she gathered her stray thoughts- emotions- and isolated them for study later to fully concentrate on the last of the day, a specifically CBMA comprised departmental synchronicity meeting. 

“Okay but the classics?” an older gentleman who appeared to wish the British Empire still held a fist of conquest over the globe, “Milan? Paris? New York? How are they upholding against disruptors to the industry? I've heard the American town of St. Louis featured headlining designers and _streamed_ it live to _anyone_ who covered the fee, anyone! And in Missouri, hardly a bastion of historical fashion.”

“And I predict more embracing of this androgyny and blurred gender-lines,” responded a woman, Bethany perhaps, from marketing. 

“There is women's wear and menswear! Two categories! The world's gone crazy!” 

Time to butt in, she thought. “Might I remind you one of the reasons the Demon has been so profitable for CB is _because_ he embodies this desired flexibility?” Michael schooled her cold glare to temper the archaic views some of her colleges still held within the industry. The same type who likely assumed the models _deserved a grope or two_ for choosing to become a model. 

Some of the grumbling settled. Gabriel stood at the head of the boardroom table and pressed his palms to the surface. “Two of our most promising new models already in request by both designers and marketing were highly influenced and drawn to CBMA rather than competitors all because of our promotion of Crowley. Don't dismiss such a boon to cling to outdated MO.” He regarded the gathered employees with a disappointed expression. 

Michael huffed her frustration- that'd been _her_ observation and _her_ recruiting advice to him he hadn't wanted to take until Lucifer had helped her push for it! But she kept it to herself. Gabriel Celestial was still powerful, still respected, still held much of the sway on the direction of his parents' agency in spite of the board and his mother holding final say. 

“But Milan! You witnessed the controversy Fall 2018!” 

“I'm sorry, I agree with Miss Archangel,” spoke a man from tech Michael wasn't quite familiar with. “If we don't move the needle on a more flexible, agile embracement of industry directional growth indicators, we'll be poached on models near end-of-contract and lose touch with new prospects.” 

More muttering took place while some took a moment to consider. Michael glanced at her silent mobile; still more texts from Lucifer, though some appeared in search of gossip regarding the current meeting. She felt some relief he hadn't chosen to attend in spite of her own encouragement for his involvement. 

A woman from accounting, a Mrs. Smith, asked over the soft voices filling the room, “All this is conjecture, but what I want to know is- Gabriel, would you address the rumors CBMA is ripe for takeover?” 

Gabriel coughed loudly, strategically, Michael knew. But it drew everyone's attention. “My mother, bless her aged soul, is still the primary owner of CBMA and has final say above and beyond anything the BOD wants, which then defers to me in the event she's unable. There is _absolutely no way_ either of us will ever sell, especially closing in on it's fiftieth anniversary!” He glared at the concerned faces around the meeting table. “Now I'll be in LA until Sunday, in fact, my flight leaves- Michael?” 

“Noon from Heathrow.” 

“Yes. We'll take this convo offline and circle back when I've monitored the temperature of the industry at the conference. If you need something, it's all in Michael's capable hands, and if _she_ doesn't know something, remember- DeVil is still affiliated with us. You won't meet a fashion industry mind as diverse as his in all aspects.” He joined the table members in their murmured praises. “Really, we're lucky to have him in our back pocket, you have no idea what a formidable opponent he might be if Lucifer falls away from us.”

With that, the meeting broke up, and Michael hightailed it out of the room before someone cornered her. 

* 

The clack of her heels upon tile accompanied her walk to a separate portion of Celestial's London building with a consistent, predictable beat. If only her thoughts were equally steady. Her spat with Lucifer haunted every thought, every move. Lucifer's image was impossible to avoid as it was within the building; in fact a still from his praised Armani campaign hung just to her left as she made her way around a corner toward the more functional and less corporate wing. Gorgeous. Sexy. Desirable. A dream or fantasy. Michael had once fallen for the veneer as well, but she wasn't alone in those silly admirations.

What had hooked her, had sealed her fate, she cynically thought, was truly learning to understand the man. She'd seen him at his lowest, been there to hold his hand. She'd witnessed him thoughtlessly kind, no performance, doting upon his children or, somewhat more painfully, how strongly he loved without letting go, though Michael felt some of his ex's were undeserving. Even his cattiness and selfishness Michael found appealing in some ways, at least in his honesty. 

There was no falseness to Lucifer DeVil. No deviously hidden agenda, in Michael’s point of view, because his every word and move broadcast openly to her, even when he was entirely in the wrong. So intelligent and yet so utterly stupid at the same time. So naive, even at nearly forty years old, his unusual childhood on display both on and off screen. 

For someone like Michael who'd been raised always to look over her shoulder, who'd stumbled into friendship with Gabriel in a latticed, careful truce, Lucifer's outlook was refreshing. He might not love her. He might not want her. But he certainly needed her, and he said so often. 

Clack went her heels, echoing through the halls, empty as they tended on a Friday afternoon. Her mind felt picked-over from unrest and problems in need of solutions. 

Celestial Bodies and all the managerial aspects she oversaw both above and below the board. 

Clack. 

Everything with Lucifer. Both her support of his vague plans to rebel against the status quo and their personal interactions. 

Clack. 

All the various strands she wove together regarding CBMA's anniversary and boundary pushing and utilizing the event so others could springboard their careers right beneath Gabriel's nose. Because his prejudices and cover-ups would deny it on sight if not finessed and guided by her hand. 

Clack.

Her slowly building sexual harassment case against Gabriel Celestial, careful and measured so it would be air-tight and rock-solid from the day Uriel Asante had come to her after an extended silence with a such a brave _help me do this_. 

Clack. 

She paused at Anthony Crowley's personal dressing room and knocked, only to hear his called out, “Yep!” between his soft conversation. She stepped within to the sight of two younger men, perhaps in their first year of design courses, in the midst of fitting a garment onto a casually posing Crowley. He seemed not to mind; the students, likely top of their class with the honor to be on-site, were clearly cow-eyed and fumblingly star-struck as Crowley cranked his seductive charm to maximum with whomever he spoke to on his mobile. 

She went quiet at his side, watching the students with an observant gaze. One dropped an entire container of pins in his flustered state. 

“You know? I'd try, but they'd be soggy by the time I got there,” Crowley said into his mobile. “Come on, it's Switzerland. What might I tempt you with?” His voice dropped low and provocative, almost too sensual for public. Michael endured an embarrassing shiver prickle the base of her spine at his borderline lewd tone. She felt justified when both students nearly released the fabric they draped and looked as though they were moments from experiencing their own sort of _reaction_ in their trousers. 

“No, something _you_ want,” Crowley said, his eyes drifting half-shut and his lips curling into a pleased smile. His posture softened only the slightest to not disturb the designers, settling more comfortably into the cock of his hip and the curve of his spine. “I know you're _hungry_ for something, angel, I bet you're craving it.” His words became a partially-whispered sultry growl. “Allow me the pleasure of slipping a taste to you when I'm back.” 

One of the students mouthed, ' _holy fuck!,_ ' at the other. Michael did her best not to allow her amusement show. Welcome to the other side where even the most mundane and boring of us brush up against the gods and devils of fashion, she thought helplessly. She idly wondered if he was seducing an old 'friend' to assure companionship during their upcoming photoshoot event and waved her fingertips within his visual space until he noticed. 

“Hang on, quick work chat.” One eyebrow arched in question at her. 

“Leaving. Gabe's gone and will meet us in Bern Monday. Text me if you need anything before Saturday's thing.” 

He nodded and immediately, she lost his attention to the mobile. “What time _do_ you close shop tonight and quit not-selling your books?” he was saying as she stepped away from his room, his voice back to it's teasing patter. 

Michael nearly misstepped. Shop? Books? Again with the bookangel? He was flirting that ostentatiously with the plain, short, middle-aged appearing everyday man from the black and white photo she’d glimpsed on Crowley’s computer? She knew in abstract Warlock had _said_ 'boyfriend', and Fell had been to visit the boys, but children misunderstand relationships. It didn't seem... there didn't seem... the models, the _supermodels_! They might dally with the non-celebrity type, but their selections tended to be of similar aesthetic appeal! And never seriously. Never. Not with.

Not like- not an ordinary someone like.

Like her. 

So dazed by this revelation, she wandered through the halls and out the B doors directly into a lurking crowd of gapers. This was still Celestial property, all employees in this parking rather than autograph hounds and gossips, what had...

Ah. 

There was Lucifer, clad in casual McQueen unbuttoned at the throat, leaning against the side of his dark and light blue ‘18 Bugatti Chiron. “You can't ignore me now, Michael,” he said, straightening from his slouch and stepping forward onto the ball of his foot while utterly ignoring his curious onlookers. Their eyes began turning toward her and that wouldn't do _at all_.

“Can't I?” she said, but she walked without much thought his way anyhow, still recalibrating her perceptions and understandings of Crowley's unexpected and likely unsustainable revelation. 

“Please, please, please just give me a moment to say my piece?” He batted his infernally attractive eyes at her. 

She caved. “Here?” she said, the word sticking. She conjured every possible boundary she'd ever constructed against him. After two deep breaths, she felt more in charge of her composure. 

“Of course not.” He opened the passenger door and circled the car. “I know you aren't partial to audiences.”

She reluctantly climbed in and suffered an awkward silence as he smoothly guided the vehicle out of the property gates. A joyful Beach Boys tune sprung from the speakers followed by some other equally obnoxious, cheerful things until they approached a long drive with gate and pinpad. 

“Where are we?” She couldn't help breaking the silence and finally looked to the side. Lucifer was biting at his lip, an anxious habit he'd picked up from Crowley, she recognized. 

“Estate of a singer-songwriter friend of mine. You probably don't want to know-” 

“Nope!” she blurted, shuddering. Sometimes his connections were too much to take in at one time. 

“You see,” he waved a hand at the expansive grounds and wide-girth trees dotting the drive as they passed through the gate, “ I don't pull in far. Just sometimes come out here to think amongst the-” he waved one hand- “green space. He offered at one point after Lilith left. It's been.” He paused and slowed the sportscar to a stop. “It's both hokey and extraordinarily helpful,” he finished before swinging the door open. 

Michael stepped out mechanically. They needed this conversation. Obviously. It'd been years since they'd had such a spat. But it tended to follow a pattern worn into a grove over the years, the pleading, the apology, the overwhelming urge for her to comfort him and submit, go back to their normal. She could not stomach it any longer, even buoyed by her inescapable love for him. 

Before he could open his mouth from where he'd settled next to her against the closed front passenger door, she turned to him with arms folded protectively across her hollow chest. “If you haven't pulled your damned head from your own arse for once in your life you utter twat, get right back in that car and take me home.” 

“You're right,” he said, nearly too soft for her to hear. His arms mirrored her own, folded tight nearly into a self-hug. “There _is_ no excuse. There never was. For- for a very long time now,” he said as if realizing it right then, his brow furrowing deep. He swung his head to flip his hair away from his face and met her eyes. 

His own were shiny and watery. She bit down into her tongue so as not to capitulate immediately. 

“We all have our vices, but I've just rolled around in mine like a pig in shit, haven't I?”

“Perhaps.” He was still looking at her, staring, in fact, with his beseeching expression and pouted lip he seemed unable to control, or too able, she wondered. “Are you manipulating me so I'll forgive you?” she said with a blunt approach, like ripping cooled wax from her skin at the salon. 

“No!” He waved his arms frantically and so gracelessly she couldn't help but believe him. 

“Lucifer,” she began with a frustrated sigh, but he interrupted with several broken noises before signing in BSL 'No.' 'Stop.' 'Wait.'

“I can wait,” she said gently. Non-verbal was always an automatic pause. 

“I'm going to stare outward toward that tree while speaking if you don't mind,” he eventually said, and then did so, narrowing his eyes and glaring off into the distance. 

They were both the most ridiculous people, weren't they, she mused as he collected his thoughts. 

“You always make me feel better, my love,” he began. 

“Oh thanks,” she snapped. “I'm glad you find me useful.”

“Wait,” he murmured, and she closed her mouth, if only because his desperate angst sounded genuine. 

“I read nearly four of Agnes's books over the past few days, and she's so wise, Michael, she really is. I know you mock me at times, but there's a whole theme about excising toxic people in your life like a pimple-alright, I added that bit-, but more importantly,” he paused and sucked in a deep breath, “ _I'm the toxic people!_ ” 

Her breath caught. She pressed her fingertips into the side of the Bugatti and waited on him. 

“Do you know how horrifying it was for me to discover _I_ am the pustulating boil? Me? A horrid spot smack in the middle of someone’s face? Lucifer DeVil? It's simply awful!”

Michael snorted, couldn't help her laugh, and she caught how his eyes slid her way before returning to focus on the tree. 

“And you've all. Well. You see, Agnes says-”

“Seriously?” she blurted. Did it always have to be Nutter?

“Hush, my love, I'm purging here. _Agnes_ says if unchecked, those with sun in Aries might tend toward arrogance and narcissistic egocentrism. Impatience. Impulsiveness. Insensitivity.” 

She had to turn some toward him at that. His eyes were off the tree and on the heavens, clearly an attempt to recall his memorized list of faults. 

“And it's true!” he continued, barreling through now. “My first husband. Lilith. Crowley. My mother. And now you. You've all needed to purify yourselves of my foulness. If I don't change, it'll be Warlock and Adam in your footsteps.” 

“You can be a real snob,” she said quietly, hesitant. “Boorish. And a fool. But you're not beyond saving.” Not beyond anything at all, she wanted to say as all her barriers crumbled. She reached for him, gripping his elbow. “I forgi-”

“No. I'm not asking for forgiveness.” He turned to meet her eyes, but at least he didn't shake off her hand. “I don't deserve _forgiveness_ ,” he added, scrunching his lips in distaste. “I want you to understand something, my love. Michael. My oldest true friend.” 

“Go on,” she encouraged while fervently thinking: Lidocane, enamel, sealant, anything to shore that space where her heart should sit, the one he had no clue he'd stuffed into his back pocket years ago...

“You make me want to be a better person,” he said, his earnestness nearly punching her gut. “A better father and friend and husband. You make me want to fix the world's problems. Michael, you have some sort of unearthly power over me, I swear. Sometimes I just _do_ things because I know it'll please you. I need your advice on everything, or it feels incomplete. It's maddening.”

She choked up and didn't know if it was emotions or vomit or the decomposition of a thousand unspoken words, but nothing emerged, so she punched his arm gently, with sentiment, and blinked very hard so her eyes wouldn't over-run with her feelings. 

“Is this uh,” she caught how breathless she sounded and cleared her throat. “Is this where the live studio _Nine Circles_ audience would be cued to a simpering 'awwwwwwww?' at our reconciliation?”

“Oh please,” he said disdainfully as he stepped away from her and reopened the passenger door as a hint for her to climb in. He circled around while she attempted to steady her hands and attempted not to swear under her breath. She was utterly _fucked,_ wasn't she? Enthralling when he wasn't even trying to be, she once had thought. Glorious in his imperfections. Fucked. 

He continued once sliding in behind the wheel as if he hadn't paused. “The boys, beloved Anthony, you, dear Uriel, the fabulous Madame Tracy, perhaps a small handful of others whom escape me. The small collection of you are my 'audience'. No one else matters.” 

Oh. Oh God. She swallowed and thought very hard about nothing. 

“What if I found Agnes Nutter for you,” she said, striving for light humor to mask her feelings. 

“Oh well _then_ , my love,” he said, rolling his eyes while putting the Bugatti into drive. “She'd not be in the audience. She'd be the head writer.” 

*

_Saturday, the 9th of March 2019_

If everything remained as planned, Michael would accompany a small team from Celestial Bodies to Bern, Switzerland on Monday for Crowley's GQ shoot and then ditch them all Wednesday for the spa day she'd just allowed herself to book a short ride outside of the de-facto capital. 

And hell, did she need it after this week. Yesterday after their talk, Lucifer had brought her back to his home so she might visit with the boys, and she'd grudgingly accepted the keys back to the Jag for the time being. He'd spent the entire late afternoon hovering at her side like a lost puppy. She excused herself for her clandestine evening meet with Uriel Asante where she was unable to eat a thing in her stress. 

This morning, in a very unusual move, she'd slept in. 

And now it was time to focus. She'd aided Lucifer in convincing the board to allow him creative control over what would be, they hoped, Celestial's industry-shaking anniversary celebration next spring. By then, she silently hoped he would control even more. But nothing was carved in stone, and her motivation to keep the details away from Gabriel until there was no way he could refuse without losing face had tripled her labor load. 

Gabriel would not approve of Uriel Asante spearheading her own collection for the celebration in spite of being one of Celestial's most successful alumnus. Gabriel would not see the benefits of collaborating with other upcoming artists, creators, and visionaries in spite of the BOD growing highly interested during Lucifer's presentation. Gabriel would lean toward whatever shocking, oversexed, titillating thing was trendy in that moment to make a short-term splash in spite of the opportunity of the anniversary celebration to elevate CBMA on a respected, global scale for fashion, art, and photography.

Gabriel was a fucking moron that'd bumbled through his degree work by the skin of his teeth with Michael and Lucifer's help before stepping into the comfortable role his parents had created for him in their agency. She'd once thought he was an affable playboy, with kind encouragement for Lucifer to take the opportunity to model and a generous, unbelievable offer of employment for Michael as his own assistant. 

Now she just felt used. 

And it was time to center herself and concentrate. 

The rented backroom of the little pub she'd chosen already boasted several tables full of nibbles and a pitcher of whatever beer was on tap. She wanted a friendly, open atmosphere for this preliminary brainstorm session to belay the more covert nature of the discussion. 

It did seem amicable, enough to light an excited wick within her. Madame Tracy, blowing a kiss to Uriel in greeting since she preferred not to be touched. Lucifer introducing himself totally unnecessarily to the artist Dagon, who was tangentially involved with Uriel's designs until they approached Michael with a fascinating suggestion. Beatrice and Hastur were in the midst of dragging the snack tray to their corner of the table and appeared slightly intimidated by their first meeting with the full team. 

She felt someone brush against her side and glanced over. 

“Gosh,” Crowley murmured, still in his sunglasses and lightweight jacket and loud enough for her to hear over the chatter. “It's starting to feel real.”

“I'm hoping we might squeeze in one more meet up before looping Gabriel in this summer.”

It all mostly fell onto her shoulders, both the responsibility and the consequences. But if all the cogs fell into place as planned, the results would be a gold-star item in everyone's resume and in general, absolutely _spectacular_. 

It was natural for her to fall into command of the room, to gather everyone's attention and nail down the more mundane details of the event. Crowley brought up a photographer he’d met in Paris he’d like to hire. Beatrice accepted an additional responsibility as Lucifer’s assistant for the event to ease some of Michael’s burden.

In fact, Michael’s fight with Lucifer meant he hadn't run the results of his private meeting with the BOD for the event with her prior as he normally would. He made his report now with a determined focus. 

“Oh,” Lucifer added after recounting some of the duller minuta of allowable budget. He leaned forward eagerly, and _there_ was the wicked curl to his lips Michael'd been missing. “I had a little chat with the widowed Mrs. Celestial at her care home.”

He paused to use his dramatic background in a much more effective way than the rubbish she'd been through earlier that week; it was like he was a completely different man. But, she thought, as his charisma wrapped even grouchy Hastur up in his spell, only she and Crowley really did know every pustulant spot as he referred to it on the true Lucifer DeVil after all. 

Crowley poked at his shoulder. “Get on with it, you queen.” 

Lucifer grinned, emboldened by his audience. “Oddly enough, no one has asked _her_ opinion on the anniversary of her own damned agency, isn't it criminal? The one she still is in control of even though-” he paused again and dropped his voice to a silky tone to include them all on the secret, “several members of the board wanted her to forfeit her share of CBMA? And her own flesh and blood tried and failed to get her declared mentally unfit due to grief and age at her sprite young seventy-four years? _A scandal!_ ” he added with a faux gasp and a sweep of his eyes to embody the entire grouping of tables. He met Crowley's eyes and held them for a moment before repeating the look at Michael. Okay, she read in his gaze, important. 

“She, of course, adored our chat, would be delighted to have her ideas included into the celebration, and will have her suggestions prepared on my next visit. Though she is ecstatic to see what you, Uriel, and that quirky Dagon have in store for us!” 

She dipped her head at him, catching his eyes to indicate his subtle message was received. He'd made headway with the true owner of CBMA, she approved of what Michael and Lucifer were doing, she was on board with their plans, and she was livid at her son for attempting to fuck her over. 

Uriel took point, introducing Dagon to those who didn't know her. A rather tall woman with eclectic taste in clothing and striking facial tattoos or approximations, she also drew eyes with short, bright hair slicked back in a wet style that hearkened back to the '80s. She was well known for risque photography and controversial takes on public art. Michael found it all a tad pretentious, but Uriel adored her work. 

“I'll bring our design sketches next meeting for your use,” Uriel finished after launching into a fair description of her collection. “They're still preliminary this far.”

“Anything else?” Michael asked. She knew in general at least Uriel and Dagon had an idea to spin. 

“Ye tell me what to do and I'll do it,” Hastur said in his usual grumble. “But we could hava meet about it 'forehand.” Which, Michael knew, was high approval and admiration from Hastur for Uriel. She really had been beloved by the staff when she'd still been under contract. 

Dagon pointed across the table at Crowley. “You,” she said. Crowley looked up from where he'd been disassembling a ballpoint pen in his fidgeting. He pushed his sunglasses atop his loose hair to reveal startled amber eyes. “I know you and Uriel talked once about how I have some ideas that would feature you and could be pivotal, but it's very much a delicate proposal.”

Crowley nodded with a soft and curious, “Let me hear it.” 

“Uriel initially invited my collaboration because her collection features elements of jute ropework infused into her construction, and my 2016 photography exhibition inspired her.” She folded her hands and demurred to Uriel. 

Michael was pleased to see Uriel’s lips curl into the slightest of smiles. So different from the silent and contemplative woman she’d met with last evening along with several others over talk of Gabiel’s transgressions. Uriel held up a sketch she’d developed at some point during the meeting. “My designs are meant to represent a gradual escaping of our bondage to duty and drudgery and rising heavenward toward freedom to embrace our destiny.” She passed the example around. 

Some members of the table oohed and ahhhed over that, intrigued or murmuring over the symbolism. Michael resisted the urge to scoff so she wouldn’t appear dismissive. Ugh. Artists. Well, whatever made them happy, she conceded. 

Dagon's grin grew wide and proud, clearly enjoying the enthusiasm. “We're furthering the collaboration for the anniversary celebration. We'd like to do an accompanying gallery show to both compliment the collection, bring in more attention to CBMA, and add to the charity auction.” She focused her attention back on Crowley. 

“And you want me to feature in it?” Michael watched as Crowley forced himself to relax in his seat to battle his uncertainty. “I'm already walking for Uriel. 'M not gonna hog the spotlight over the others.” 

“It's not _hogging_ when you're specifically requested, love,” Lucifer butt in softly. He reached to stroke a comforting touch along Crowley's outstretched arm. 

“There are fifty years of models to work with!” he defended as he pulled away from Lucifer. Michael couldn't help zeroing on how Lucifer nonchalantly folded his hands back together on the table as if chastised.

Crowley glanced across at Michael in search of her opinion. It was a no-brainer to her either when considering his adventurous portfolio of work, but Crowley's values ran differently than most within the business. “You can always say no,” she suggested. She turned to Dagon, who had helped herself to a snack in the meantime since her curiosity was also piqued. “Perhaps you should explain?” 

Dagon glanced at Uriel and received the go-ahead. “It'd be a series featuring my use of shibari in contemporary photography upon a backdrop of space. I'd work with a professional master of the art to design safe but poignant poses to replicate constellations of the zodiac in a nod to Uriel's collection. Similar to my previous exhibition, the purpose of this would be elegance in form, not pornographic titillation.” 

Michael thankfully did _not_ spit the mineral water she'd just sipped. They wanted to _tie Crowley up like some sordid BDSM wank fodder ?_. She swiftly woke her tablet to do a quick image search for Dagon's body of work. Her concern lessened upon viewing; she was wrong, this was far more refined and tasteful than some of the borderline shoots Gabriel had subjected Crowley to recently. She'd leave it to Crowley to decide. 

It'd grown quiet in the brief moment she'd taken to verify, so she glanced up. Crowley's lips were parted without sound and his cheeks were lightly flushed. His elbows were propped on the table with his forearms knocked together. He was staring at his wrists very intently.

“With er. Ropes?” he said, so quietly Michael almost didn’t hear him.

Lucifer was watching him with a puzzled expression. He flicked his eyes to Michael with a _what's this then_ eyebrow and turned to Uriel and Dagon. "You've blown his mind, my friends. Anthony here just adores astronomy, don't you, love? And perhaps _other_ elements of your proposal?” he added with his curiosity thick in his voice.

Crowley shook his head some so his mussed hair shuffled back over his shoulders. He appeared to scan everyone at the table with his eyes, wordless, then turned back to Dagon. “Allow me to talk it over with someone and think on it?” he murmured quietly and unusually subdued. Michael narrowed her eyes at him when his blush did not abate. 

“Thank you for considering,” Dagon said, breaking some of the silence. “I know it would be an opportunity to retragectorize some of your career as well, but I absolutely understand if it's a bit much.”

Crowley nodded again, silently, and this time Michael noticed he did allow Lucifer to pat the back of his hand as a soothing gesture. 

“Anything else we need to cover?” Lucifer said toward the gathering rather than anyone specifically. “Uriel, darling, it's near end March, shall we meet again sometime in June prior to Paris Haute Couture week which we _all know_ I'm going to attend for funsies?”

Michael checked her schedule while she overheard Uriel's delicate laugh and agreement. Nothing, of course. She knew Lucifer's preferences like her own and mid-June to mid-July would be his time for indulgence, Warlock’s birthday, and an annual holiday with the boys she'd inevitably be dragged on without much resistance on her part. 

Uriel began packing up her assorted folders and paperwork. “I'll have sketches by then to match with models and perhaps work with the muslins in August or so,” she said over the smalltalk that'd picked up with the end of the meeting nearing. “For those of you first joining us, we'd decided the entire evening is meant to dovetail astrology and astronomy. Dagon and I have been feeling out consults in both realms for accuracy. This is going to draw eyes and be groundbreaking; we don't want embarrassing mistakes.” 

Lucifer rose from his seat and stretched a little too flamboyantly for Michael to think it wasn't deliberate. Still, she had to glance downward a moment away from the slip of skin revealed at his belly. “Well Uriel, darling, Mademoiselle Dagon, you know I'm all hands on deck so to speak to help with your astrology. Though it's a pity we couldn't hunt down beloved Agnes to get her eyes on board,” he added with a mournful sigh. 

“It's not like we haven't tried,” Michael reasoned, but Dagon shuffled some pages and grinned. 

“I've got a meeting set up with her publisher soon, Anathema Device. If we can't have Agnes, we might at least get some input _through_ Device.” She sounded giddy, and Lucifer appeared delighted. 

Michael intended to open her mouth to say she indeed had tried that years ago with only rejection, but suddenly froze. The image from the computer of Crowley's 'boyfriend' standing aside Anathema Device as she collected an award blazed bright in her mind. Perhaps she could have Crowley lean on this A.Z. Fell to convince Device to allow even written access to Nutter? Before she could suggest this, Crowley also jumped to his feet, more skittish than graceful. 

“I'll help,” Crowley said. He tipped his chin up and louder he added, “I'll help with your astronomy consult.” 

Hastur took that moment to snort laughter and slap the table. “Oh get real, Crawley Crow. Posing in your skivvies wi' a telescope is no sub-” 

Crowley whipped his head around, eyes blazing and unbound ginger hair fanning outward in an arc of color. Any hesitance he'd shown earlier in the meeting was gone; he was eye-fetchingly incandescent in his defiance. “I earned half my programme with good marks, could rattle off the features of any quadrant at any time of year, and I _know_ what I'm talking about.” His shoulders shrank in on himself gradually as startled expressions met his own from around the table. 

“Tell them, Luce. Michael?” He turned to Uriel, “I've mentioned-” 

“You have,” Uriel said, calm as ever. “That'll be splendid. I'll be in touch. I'll see most of you soon and reconvene sometime in June. Remember to please keep this from Gabriel Celestial until we are ready to present the entire package.” 

With that, some participants scooted out as quickly as possible, Hastur grumbling the entire time. 

Michael watched with some trepidation as Crowley immediately pushed away from the table and scrabbled for his mobile to make a call. By the time he passed by her, phone stuffed to his ear, he wore a shy grin devoid of his previous flash of anger. He winked cheekily at her before sliding his mirrored sunglasses back into place. 

“Got a whole three hours free, angel, ‘fore disappearing on you for two weeks. Shall I swing by with a bite?” she heard him say as he swept through the door.

Lucifer's entire being seemed attuned to where he'd exited, his own expression forlorn. 

She crossed the room to his side, miming 'text me later' to Uriel. “May I speak to you a moment,” she said in a hushed voice. The remaining group paid them no mind. Lucifer followed her toward a nearby bar seating area in order to allow the staff to bus the table. 

“Whatever lager you’ve got handy,” Lucifer said while Michael waved off the barkeep for herself. 

“What do you know about Crowley's 'boyfriend'?” she said, his blatant flirting from the prior day in mind and the image of Fell standing with Device. “Do I need to do a more detailed investigation on him?” The slightly dirty feeling of her past snooping warred with her desire to be sure he was safe. 

Lucifer sighed, but it was more wistful than anything. He scooted further into the bar stool and leaned onto the polished wood bar itself. “Bookangel is what it says on the tin. I want to hate him so!” he pushed his fingertips into his hair and shoved a loose lock behind his ear. “Warlock _defended_ him to me earlier this week. Called me out for a proper chastisement which I sorely deserved. 

The man's bit on the tubby side, shorter than you, but he comes off as rather cherubic, which is horribly convenient for Anthony's little nickname for him. He's got sparkly blue eyes behind vintage Bvlgari frames I doubt he even recognizes the immense value of based on his other sartorial selections!”

“Sorry?” She drummed her recently manicured nails over her tablet case, nearly in shock. In his envy, Lucifer _never_ had anything even vaguely nice to say over Crowley's hook-ups and lovers. 

The barkeep returned with Lucifer's beer, which he took a large swallow of immediately. Michael failed at not staring at how his mouth caressed the rim of the glass. 

“You didn't think I'd do a bit of sniffing around a man who'd be spending time around my sons? Who had Anthony still behaving arse over teakettle?” He fluttered the hand not gripping his drink. “Books. Literally an angel. Bit of a tinhat, but a clever bastard.”

She watched him briefly while considering his words. “So you went behind Crowley's back, and you didn't ask me to do it for you?” 

Lucifer reached for her hand, and before she could blurt something asinine in surprise, he squeezed her fingers gently. “You get too tangled in your espionage, my love. I simply asked him. And perhaps a quick visit to the dusty shop to refresh his image in my mind. Anthony is entirely too overprotective of the boys. Much too far for my tastes. He'd never bring Adam and Warlock around someone he didn't trust, no matter how infatuated.”

She glanced downward, thrown off-balance; it'd been ages since they'd held hands for comfort. But she left it there, confused, wondering if he was still feeling fragile. “And you're good with this bookseller?” She managed to get out. “This short, ordinary nobody somehow pulling your beloved's eye?” Her words sounded cruel even to her own ears, but parts of her were twisting inside. 

“Oh Michael, don't play dumb when I know you're insanely bright. _Ordinary_ people can't really handle it all, can they? They grow jealous or are using you selfishly for fame or even worse, think they're dating your character or your ad campaign and are disappointed when you go gassy if you eat cruciferous vegetables or prefer to spend Saturday evening at home instead of the flashy life they thought you lived. Even I can see this fellow isn't so cut and dry.” 

“The cabbage bit sounds oddly specific,” she pointed out with unfortunate first-hand experience. “So you're good then with it all, are you?” she probed because his acceptance still seemed surreal. 

Lucifer rolled his eyes. “It's not like I have a choice,” he mumbled petulantly. “Anthony is his own person- sun in Libra, moon in Leo, Scorpio ascendant and so on. I don't 'own' him. I'm not going to chase him around pathetically if he’s closed that door just because the entertainment world finds their jollies imagining us fuck!” He said it with evident disgust while Michael squeezed her eyes shut for a moment because she _had_ walked in on them accidentally with great mortification over the years. 

“And please, Michael, you know more than anyone he was just in love with the _idea_ of me. Even I could see that, but I couldn't help myself. He wanted beauty, yes,” he preened, “but he wanted the happy home life. He doted on Warlock well before we even discussed Adam. And he's positively brilliant when he's not drowning in anxiety.”

Michael found herself unable to come up with something to say, so stunned by his admittance. She flicked her eyes to meet his, somber and soulful as they seemed to be in this moment. Rather than hold his gaze any longer than a few heartbeats, she pilfered the last of his drink and shotgunned the dregs. 

He was staring at the door again, still clutching at her hand. When he looked back at her, noting the emptied glass with a knowing smile playing at his lips, he shook his head at it all. 

“It'll all play out. Anthony knows what he's doing,” he said softly. “I'm not besotted by air-headed fools, you know, my love.”

“I know,” Michael said, “I know.” She squeezed his hand back, relaxing some with the hit of alcohol. She wanted to do something for him. Give him something comforting, something special. Perhaps she'd take one more look into hunting down Agnes Nutter after all. What could it hurt?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> horoscopes used in this chapter from horoscope . com various dates. 
> 
> Lucifer's emo poem recital from “I have outlasted all desire” by Alexander Pushkin
> 
> Somewhere in here my edit notes say Gabriel's name is misspelled, and I can't find it. It's driving me nuts.

**Author's Note:**

> Each chapter will begin with a horoscope hinting at a future plotline for a character that I pull from a current date. I built natal charts for many of the characters based off of invented birthdates for various reasons
> 
> Zodiac Sun signs  
> Crowley- Libra  
> Aziraphale-Leo  
> Lucifer- Aries  
> Gabriel- Scorpio  
> Anathema- Scorpio  
> Michael- Pisces  
> Warlock- Gemini Cancer Cusp  
> Adam- Capricorn  
> Uriel- Virgo  
> Dagon- Libra  
> Beelzebub- Gemini  
> Tracy- Sagittarius  
> Newt- Taurus
> 
> Since someone has asked- I am using the Placidus House System for developing their natal charts, but I'm only including some basics. I am using the traditional 12 and not the updated Ophiuchus
> 
> I would appreciate any kudos or comments! But even if nobody reads this at all, I am so ecstatically proud of myself for writing a whole novel and want to share with others. I hope everyone gets to experience this feeling of reaching a goal at least once in their lives.


End file.
